


Teaching Tailgate

by occasional_boy_reporter



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Advice, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Nobody Dies/No Overlord On Board AU, Porn, Scooby-Dooby Doors, Self-Discovery, Sexual Humor, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, no one finishes a conversation, unwanted flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4566534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occasional_boy_reporter/pseuds/occasional_boy_reporter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailgate's missed a lot in six million years. Like an entire civil war...and apparently, the invention of a new system of interfacing. Now if only someone on the Lost Light could give him a straight answer about this whole spike/valve thing!</p><p>i.e. A fic where drunken Whirl comes on to Tailgate and Tailgate asks just about every mech on the ship to explain how the heck bots have sex these days. Eventual Cygate and near other Tailgate pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have other fics I'm supposed to finish but please forgive me! I can't stop thinking about writing more humorous sexual escapades.  
> Different universe but this is very much the same silly vein as my Pay to Play fic. So if you liked that, enjoy Tailgate's journey!  
> Set after Delphi but in a magical Nobody Dies/No Overlord On Board AU.

   Tailgate can hear the boisterous fun before the door to Swerve’s bar even opens and he feels his own spark give a happy little spin of anticipation. As expected, the gang is all there and, as expected, well on their way to being totally drunk. The blue and white minibot is not known to drink himself into shutdown but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t thoroughly enjoy the company of others who do. A burst of jouyous noise erupts just as Tailgate is climbing onto an empty stool between Skids and Rewind.

   “What are we laughing about?” Tailgate chirps, giggling along, riding that wave of contagious euphoria.

   The laughter and exclamations stop almost immediately with only a few of the drunkest mechs still tittering in the background. Was it something Tailgate said?

   Before Tailgate’s complexes can kick in and force him to ask what he’s done to interrupt the fun everyone was having, Whirl leans very slowly onto the far corner of the bar. Whirl doesn’t have what you might traditionally call a face but boy does he know how to grin despite that fact.

   “We were all just having a philosophical debate,” Whirl offers helpfully.

   “Oh?” Tailgate queries. He’s not much for philosophy, at least he doesn’t think so, but that won’t stop him from trying to fit into the conversation. “Philosophical debate about what?”

   “Whirl, don’t.” Swerve winces from behind the bar.

   Oh, but Whirl does.

   “A philosophical debate,” the gleeful mech presses on pointedly despite the quiet pleas for him to let it go, “about which is better; being spiked or being the one doing the spiking.”

   Several mechs groan and look away except for Chromedome, who looks like he’s trying to melt Whirl with the glare of his visor, and Tailgate who sits perfectly still.

   Being stuck underground for six million years meant that Tailgate had missed a few things. Ok, a lot of things. Like an entire civil war and then some. Sometimes his new friends forget that Tailgate has never even heard of some of the things that are commonplace to them. After a moment of supremely awkward silence, Tailgate’s curiosity wins out and he fidgets on his bar stool.

   “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

   If Tailgate’s presence had originally made the group shy and uneasy, his question positively sends the assembled mechs into a frenzy.

   “Dibs!” Whirl calls through the flurry of exclamations and muttered condolences.

   Tailgate has no idea what Whirl is trying to even call ‘dibs’ on. The minibot feels incredibly stupid the longer the fuss goes on. This is the whole ‘Orion Pax is Optimus Prime’ thing all over again.

   “Oh wait!” Tailgate exclaims, energon rushing to his head and tinting his face slightly in embarrassment. He stumbles over his words as he tries to save face in front of the assembled mechs. “You said ‘spiking’, I thought you said ‘PSYking’ or something. Totally misheard. Uh, yeah! Well, I guess I like to be the one spiking then.”

   Trailbreaker spits his drink all over Pipes’ face. Fearful that he’s said the wrong thing, Tailgate adds, “Though getting spiked is really awesome too!”

   “Oh, Tailgate,” Rewind moans with a tiny hand over his camera and another over his own visor, “please stop talking, buddy.”

   Whirl is positively cackling as he leaves his post at the bar and rushes over, nearly tripping in his drunkenness, to drape an arm around Tailgate’s shoulders. Whirl braces the other one over Rewind to help balance him but Chromedome deftly removes that limb and Whirl is forced to lean all his weight on little Tailgate instead, nearly pinning him to the bar.

   “Let’s back up a minute.” Whirl purrs with delight. “I’m pretty fragging overcharged so it might have been my sweet, twisted imagination… but did I hear you say you like to spike?”

   “Um, yeah,” Tailgate mutters even as Rewind emphatically shakes his head and Chromedome does this kind of slashing thing with his hand that might mean ‘don’t say another word.’ But Tailgate can’t take it back now or everyone will know he was lying the first time. He has to keep rolling with it.

   “So you like to spike.” Whirl repeats thoughtfully. “You’re kind of a little guy. You stick to other minibots or you ever spike bigger bots?”

   “Oh yeah,” Tailgate keeps right on rolling. If size is important, this must be some kind of dominance thing… like physical. Wrestling maybe, or some other kind of sport. “Minis are a lot of fun. You know, level playing field and all but I don’t shy away from a challenge! I’ve spiked some big ones! Maybe not Megatron big but pretty big. Like Ultra Magnus maybe.”

   Whirl sniggers and leans a little heavier on Tailgate. “Yeah, what’s your favorite part?”

   “Cut it out, Whirl,” someone mutters but Tailgate is too busy trying to come up with some kind of answer that will be vague but plausible to even pick out the voice’s owner.

   “Well…” Tailgate hums as if in consideration but Whirl doesn’t let him flounder on that for long.

   “How about getting spiked? You said you like that too right? What’s the best part of that? The fulfillment?”

   Tailgate is starting to get the impression they are not talking about sports. Though he isn’t sure what this whole spiking/getting spiked business is all about otherwise.

   “But most importantly” Whirl pokes a claw teasingly into Tailgate’s side, “which would you prefer tonight?”

   The minibot is saved from making a decision when a silver claw shoots out from behind Whirl, latches onto the former Wrecker’s single eye, and jerks back just as swiftly. Whirl’s half-full drink arcs in a neon glow as he goes down hard on his aft. Tailgate squeaks in a delayed surprise at the same time that the bar erupts in movement. Half the bots flinch away from the bar afraid that Whirl will spring to his feet and start shooting and the other half lean closer to get a good look at Whirl sprawled on his back apparently out cold.

   “Cyclonus!” Tailgate chastises. Because honestly, who else would dare attack Whirl from behind and then not immediately run for their life?

   But Tailgate doesn’t even catch more than a glimpse of the old warrior’s purple armor before he is being effortlessly plucked from his bar stool and tucked under the warrior’s arm like a case of energon.

   “Aaaand the party is OVER!” Swerve calls out deciding enough is enough for one night. “Who’s taking Whirl home?”

   Tailgate barely catches the exchange behind them as Cyclonus marches from the bar.

   “Seriously,” Swerve warns, “don’t leave him here if you want the bar to be in one piece tomorrow.”

   The double doors slide shut behind them and Tailgate feels extra silly in the brightly lit hallway.

   “Cyclonus!” Tailgate squirms beneath the bigger mech’s arm. “I can walk.”

   They pass Ratchet in the hall, apparently on his way to Swerve’s. Though the medic doesn’t say anything, Tailgate is embarrassed that some mech has witnessed him getting carted down the hall out of context. Though context hasn’t done much for Tailgate all evening.

   Several times Cyclonus tightens his grip before they finally make it back to their shared habsuite where Cyclonus proceeds to dump Tailgate very much like he had the first time they entered the habsuite. Although this time, Cyclonus is thoughtful enough to dump the minibot on a recharge slab instead of the floor. Less distance to fall means less pain but Tailgate still feels the blow in his aft and he rubs it with a little whine.

   Cyclonus turns toward the door and Tailgate is sure the warrior intends to just dump him and run off without explanation. Instead, a beep and a click signal that Cyclonus has locked the door before simply staring down at Tailgate. Tailgate dares to look up. Cyclonus looks as patently grumpy as ever but his hands keep twitching like he is trying not to form fists and having a hard time of it. And one of his optic’s twitches a little at the corner.

   Tailgate clears a tiny lump from his intake. “What?”

   Cyclonus suddenly sinks to the floor in front of Tailgate and the berth. Down on both knees with open hands forcefully smoothed on top his thighs, Tailgate has never seen Cyclonus look more serious.

   “Do you know what it means to interface?”

   Tailgate jumps a little in spite of himself, surprised by Cyclonus’ deep voice in the very quiet room.

   “Yeah,” Tailgate states confidently and then, after getting caught in Cyclonus’ stern stare, he continues a little sheepishly, “you mean like data exchanges between mechs… right? With the cables and everything?”

   Tailgate pops his side panel and holds the flexible cable up to illustrate his knowledge. Cyclonus silently gestures for him to put it away.

   “Have you ever engaged in that kind of an interface?”

   “A data exchange…the other...bomb disposal units, we shared data sometimes.”

   Cyclonus' optics flare in something Tailgate hopes isn't suspicion before he finally shakes his head slowly. “Not for information purposes. Did you ever do it for pleasure?”

   “For…pl…pleasure” Tailgate stumbles over the word and turns that over for a long time. “Wait! Bots do that to feel good? How?”

   Cyclonus shoots to his feet and startles Tailgate but it is only so the bigger mech can glare daggers at their habsuite door and growl like a turbofox. Completely oblivious to whatever has turned Cyclonus’ mood, Tailgate is suddenly full of questions.

   “Is that what spiking is? Another word for interfacing? So they were talking about what makes them feel good and Whirl…Whoah! Was Whirl trying to give me pleasure?”

   “Don’t ever say that again!” Cyclonus snarls but Tailgate is miles away.

   “I’m so confused! Why did nobody ever tell me you could do that and feel good? Can any bot do it? Whirl acted like size was important. Has it got something to do with cable size?”

   “Stop!” Cyclonus orders and resumes his spot kneeling in front of Tailgate but this time he is almost more tense. “They weren’t discussing that kind of interfacing.”

   “There’s more than one kind?” Tailgate whines. He is so lost.

   “Don’t interrupt again until I’ve finished explaining.” Cyclonus snaps back and Tailgate sits on his hands like that will somehow help keep him quiet. Cyclonus frowns, possibly out of habit, before continuing. “Cable and port based interface faded out millions of years ago. Only older mechs still perform the original interface.”

   “Mechs like Ratchet?”

   Tailgate clamps his little hands over his faceplate when he realizes he’s slipped up. Cyclonus simply shoots him a stern look and continues.

   “Possibly,” Cyclonus admits though he has no intention of dwelling on it himself or elaborating that particular point even for Tailgate’s sake. “Cables and ports were eventually eclipsed by a more tactile form of interface that requires another set of equipment called an interface array. The array was so well received that many mechs were retrofitted with them and most mechs born after onlined with arrays as standard features. ”

   Tailgate squirms and Cyclonus doesn’t even bother suppressing the squirming bot. “Go ahead.”

   “Do I have it? The equipment?”

   “I do not know. It’s unlikely unless the medics saw fit to update you when you first boarded the ship. You’ll have to ask Ratchet if you want that information.”

   “Oh…” and after a second of contemplation, “do you have it?”

   Something funny crosses Cyclonus’ face and he grunts before standing abruptly and heading for their habsuite door. The lock clicks open and it is obvious Cyclonus intends to actually leave this time.

   “Wait!” Tailgate slides to his feet. “Where are you going?”

   “To kill Whirl,” Cyclonus mutters before storming out of the suite and leaving Tailgate with an ever growing list of questions.

   “But…” Tailgate mutters to the now closed door, “but you didn’t really tell me anything.”

   He could simply wait for Cyclonus to come back and ask all the rest of the questions rattling around in his helm. Though Cyclonus didn’t seem to enjoy answering them very much. Maybe he should ask someone else on the ship. Someone smart who wouldn’t make fun of him too much for not knowing.

   “Fine then,” Tailgate puffs out his little chest, ready to embark on a special mission, “I’ll go find out what spiking is myself!”

  


	2. Chapter 2

   What Tailgate needs is someone smart. And as far as the little mech can tell, there isn’t any bot on board with more going on in his processor than Perceptor. Well, Brainstorm would have argued that point all day and that’s just one of the reasons Tailgate isn’t going to see Brainstorm instead. Some of the other reasons being that too many of the things Brainstorm is involved in wind up exploding or doing some other weirdly unexpected thing and Tailgate is pretty sure that spiking doesn’t have a lot to do with explosions.

   Tailgate’s tiny fist barely makes a sound as it knocks against the door to Perceptor’s lab. Tailgate waits anxiously for a moment before knocking again. He really wishes he had Perceptor’s comm frequency so he could have at least warned the scientist he was coming. The last thing Tailgate wants is to be rude. He knocks once more, receives no answer and turns with a disappointed sigh. “Maybe he’s busy.”

   That’s when Perceptor practically skids around the corner. He’s not quite running but he’s definitely not out for a leisurely stroll either.

   “Perceptor!” Tailgate brightens. “I was looking for you! Do you think you have a minute to-ack!”

   The scientist enters his door’s code and scoops Tailgate inside in one fluid movement. When the door closes, Perceptor kneels, looks very seriously at the minibot in front of him, and places a single finger to his own lips in the common ‘no talking’ gesture that Cyclonus also likes to use. Tailgate nods and repeats the gesture.

   “Oh Percy!~”

   Tailgate jumps at the voice behind the door but he doesn’t make a sound. There are only two bots on the Lost Light crazy enough to call an ex-Wrecker sniper by a silly nickname. Ok, three. But it doesn’t sound like Captain Rodimus and Whirl’s probably still out cold somewhere. That’s got to be Brainstorm rapping against Perceptor’s door.

   “Percy, come on. I know you’re in there. I’ve got heat scanners wired to my optics you know.”

   Perceptor just rolls his eyes and waits.

   Ten seconds of tense silence later Brainstorm finally curses. “Frag! The mess hall! Of course, he’ll have stopped there first.”

   Brainstorms’ footsteps echo down the hall. Perceptor lets out a tiny sigh and rises to his feet. “Excellent job, Tailgate.”

   “Does he really have heat scanners in his optics?”

   “Brainstorm? As a matter of fact, he does. Which is why I have devices embedded in the walls to throw out all kinds of false infrared signals. Were you waiting for me?”

   “Yeah, but…um, are you hiding from Brainstorm?”

   “Absolutely not.” Perceptor answers evenly as he circles a table full of sciency looking gear and unscrews the top of a little glass dish. “What would the logic be in that? Brainstorm is a comrade and a contemporary and, as such, I look forward to our time spent together in lengthy discussion and debate.”

   Tailgate stares for a moment not sure if that is sarcasm. “Really?”

   “Really,” Perceptor replies coolly.

   Tailgate’s still not sure if it’s sarcasm.

   “I’d simply rather not engage him at this exact moment,” Perceptor finally admits and takes a small sample of something from the glass dish and spreads it on a slide. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon enough. In the meantime, what can I do for you?”

   Tailgate pads over to the table but it’s too high for him to see much of what Perceptor’s doing, even when he stands on his tippy toes. “Well, there’s some stuff I wanted to know about and I thought you’re pretty smart so maybe you could help me?”

   “Certainly, I’d be delighted to be of assistance.” Perceptor goes about whatever he is doing quickly, kind of like he wants to finish before Brainstorm comes back. He only sounds a little distracted as he mutters, “Ask away, Tailgate.”

   Perceptor looks really busy with whatever he’s doing and Tailgate decides he should be straightforward so he doesn’t take up too much of the scientist’s time. Tailgate sucks in a vent and just sorta throws it out there. “How do mech’s interface?”

   Steady sniper hands freeze completely as Perceptor stares unblinking at his slide. He glances at Tailgate with a hint of uncertainty. “Come again?”

   “Interface.” Tailgate repeats just a little louder in case Perceptor had been concentrating so hard that he hadn’t heard the first time. Tailgate scales a tall stool and sits, putting himself almost eye level with Perceptor. “I mean the new kind, not the old kind. I kinda know a little about the cable stuff. Or at least I think I do. But the new stuff sounds even weirder. Cyclonus said there’s new equipment but I don’t know anything about it.”

   Perceptor very gently sets aside all his sciency stuff and focuses on Tailgate. He even pulls a second stool around to Tailgate’s side of the table and lowers it with a little crank so that when he sits, Perceptor and Tailgate are still optic level. Perceptor’s hands fold neatly in his lap. Tailgate thinks he hears Perceptor mutter something about a 'duty to educate' before the scientist straightens and offers the minibot a small smile. “Alright, Tailgate. You have my undivided attention. I assume that the ‘new equipment’ you imply is a standard interface array?”

   “Yes,” Tailgate chirps happily, relieved that Perceptor knows what he’s talking about, “that’s what it was called!”

   The former Wrecker nods very seriously and launches into a very informative tone. “Standard interface arrays were first developed as a rather gimmicky interface alternative, advertised on late night programming and marketed at an incredibly narrow collection of young mechs who-“

   Tailgate fidgets. He forgot that Perceptor could get a little wordy. “I, uh...”

   “-they were not seen to have any practical use until one point seven million years later in response to the low yield rate of hotspots-“

   “Perceptor,” Tailgate sheepishly interrupts, “I’m sorry. I don’t really need the history. I just want to know how it all works.”

   “Oh, very well then. A standard interface array contains a series of nodes that are each linked to-“

   “Is there an abridged version?” Tailgate asks. He’s learned quite a lesson from that whole Autobot code thing and knows which mechs are the kind of mechs to ask for abridged versions. Perceptor is one of those mechs.

   Perceptor sits perfectly still but there’s something in the air that gives Tailgate the impression that the scientist would very much like to frown. Like a really big frown. But he doesn’t. Finally, Perceptor sighs. “There’s a spike and a valve. Either can be stimulated by themselves but they are designed to be used in tandem.”

   “In tandem?” Tailgate pipes up.

   Perceptor stalls for a moment and offers Tailgate the look of the extremely flabbergasted. “Yes, together. Interlocking in a way. Much the same way a cable and port would.”

   Tailgate leans forward, confusion clearly painted all over his frame. “But Cyclonus said it was new equipment. How can it be the same way?”

   “Not the same but with similar concept. A valve receives a spike the same way a port receives a cable."

   Tailgate waits expectantly for clarification.

   "Like… well, like this.” Perceptor finally mutters. Raising one hand, Perceptor brings his thumb and first finger together in a circle and with the other hand, pointedly sticks a single finger into the hole made by his first hand.

   “Like this?” Tailgate asks and repeats Perceptor’s gesture.

   “Yes!” The ex-Wrecker sighs in relief.

   “…I don’t get it. What does a finger in a hole do?”

   Perceptor’s face seems to get more colorful every time either one of them says the word ‘valve.’ Or ‘spike’ or ‘cable’ or ‘port.’ Now the word ‘hole.’ Actually, everything seems to make Perceptor’s cheeks flush. Tailgate wonders if the scientist is embarrassed by the minibot's ignorance.

   “I’m sorry, Perceptor. I just don’t get how this-“ Tailgate does the finger in the hole thing again, “is supposed to feel good.”

  “Forget that!” Perceptor hastily waves Tailgate’s interconnected hands away, the color on his face getting deeper and deeper. Perceptor clears his intake and finds that informative tone again, though it sounds a little off. “During interface, the spike and valve join. This completes an electrical circuit and that completion usually triggers an overload.”

   “Wait, what's an overload?”

   Perceptor's face seems to be stuck with his eyes wide and his mouth makes the shapes for 'what's an overload' but actual sounds never come out.

   “You know what, Tailgate?” Perceptor asks cheerily as he surges to his feet and gently helps Tailgate off his own stool. “You really should consult an expert on this. I think Ratchet or one of the other medics might be much better suited to discuss this with you.”

   “Oh!” Tailgate squeaks as he hurries to the door. Apparently he’s taken up too much of Perceptor’s time with his dumb questions. Why else would he be running him out of the room? “Right! I’ll do that. I’m sorry for all the questions.”

   “No, no! Your curiosity is perfectly natural, just promise me you’re on your way to see Ratchet right now.”

   “Yeah! Yeah, I’ll go right away. Thank you for your time, Perceptor. I’ll see you around.”

   Tailgate offers a little wave, which Perceptor returns somewhat haltingly, before the minibot scurries down the hall.

 

***

   “So it goes like this, huh?”

   Perceptor nearly jumps at the sudden voice on his left and whirls to find Brainstorm standing there with a single finger poking into the hole made by his other hand. That damn briefcase dangles the whole time.

   “How do you even know about that?” Perceptor snaps, his blush easily doubling before he beats the color down with the force of his ire.

   “Well, it sure isn’t because I convinced Red Alert you might be in trouble and he hacked your computer’s cameras to check on you. I mean, that would be genius.”

   Perceptor stalks back into his lab to pointedly turn his monitor toward a wall.

   “Never took you as the shy type," Brainstorm wheedles, positively overjoyed by this development.

   Perceptor simply grunts and fights that returning blush.

   “Sooo,” Brainstorm drawls, "you got any other master tips for an aspiring mech or can I show you the latest gun now?”

   "Brainstorm, so help me, that'd better not be innuendo!"

 


	3. Chapter 3

   Tailgate sighs and kicks his legs making them sway over the side of the med berth. Ratchet’s shift is over, which Tailgate should have remembered seeing as how he passed the medic less than half an hour ago in the hall to and from Swerve’s. And Ratchet’s a good mech! He never leisurely drinks on duty. At least not that Tailgate’s ever heard. So, obviously, the mech he came here to see isn’t even in!

   Tailgate should just go back to his habsuite. It’s late and First Aid and Ambulon have been busy with two incredibly drunk mechs since before Tailgate even walked in. But First Aid told him to take a seat so here Tailgate sits.

   The blue and white minibot glances over at the drunk mechs who apparently have been fighting each other all evening. They’re pretty dinged up, one of them is even missing an arm. It looks pretty painful but Ambulon's said more than once that ‘we’re not wasting perfectly good painkillers when you can just numb your receptors.’ The drunks are still so rowdy that the two medics occasionally have to push them back onto the exam tables so they can finish wrapping off some wires or patching up a split seam. The mechs on this ship sure do like to drink!

   Yeah, Tailgate should probably go home. It’s not like it’s going to kill him to wait another day to get his questions answered…although it will be really hard to get to sleep otherwise and his tossing and turning will undoubtedly annoy Cyclonus. And then he’ll get yelled at. But maybe Cyclonus will just sigh and let Tailgate ask his questions so they can both recharge…

   “Alright, Tailgate,” First Aid slides over on a rolling chair and activates the monitor attached to the berth the minibot occupies. “I think Ambulon’s got a handle on things over there. Sorry you had to wait. What seems to be the problem?”

   Tailgate fidgets, thrown off by the sudden attention when he was just thinking about leaving. “I can come back when Ratchet’s in.”

   “If that’s what you want,” First Aid responds though there’s a little edge of annoyance to it, “but I promise Ambulon and I are very capable medics.”

   Oops! Tailgate wasn’t trying to say they couldn’t do the job.

   “Well,” Tailgate continues slowly, careful to watch his manners, “I was wondering if maybe you could please scan me or something.”

   “Scan you for what?” First Aid asks. After giving Tailgate a glance he continues. “You don’t seem ill.”

   “Oh, I’m fine! I was just wondering if…if…” Tailgate isn’t so sure this is a good idea anymore. Cyclonus seemed real annoyed by his questions and Perceptor had been in such a hurry to get Tailgate out the door…

   “Yes?” First Aid prompts. “If what?”

   But Tailgate is never going to sleep until he figures out what the heck this new interfacing is all about!

   “I was just wondering if you could see if I have an interface array!” He blurts a little louder than intended.

   The two drunk mechs who’ve been giving Ambulon a hard time in the corner suddenly get very quiet. Tailgate feels the energon rush to his cheeks again. Why do mechs keep doing that around him today?

   Without saying a word, First Aid stands and tugs a thick, plastic curtain all around them to create a little bubble of privacy. That accomplished, First Aid takes his seat again. “You want to know if you have an interface array?”

   “Yeah…” Tailgate squeaks nervously.

   “Is…there some reason you’re unsure?”

   “I just…don’t know if I do.”

   First Aid is real quiet for a minute. “I could examine you…”

   But there is something about the way First Aid says it that makes Tailgate think maybe the junior medic would really rather not. Well scrap, now he’s made First Aid feel all weird too.

   “But let’s try something else first. Alright, Tailgate?”

   Tailgate nods. First Aid is actually really nice! Maybe it’s a good thing Ratchet’s not here. First Aid types away at the screen mounted to the berth and then turns it around so Tailgate can see.

   “Do you have one of these?”

   The minibot leans real close and turns his head this way and that trying to make sense of the image on the screen. It’s probably from some medical text because there’s all kinds of notes written on the sides and little labeled arrows pointing all over the place. Even with all that extra information, Tailgate still doesn’t know what the funny looking cylinder thing is.

   “I don’t think so. What is it?”

   First Aid’s visor flashes in surprise but he doesn’t say anything except, “That’s a diagram of a spike.”

   Tailgate stares at the picture again before something in his processor clicks. “Oh! It does look a lot like a finger! But it points more up instead of down. Do you have one of a valve?”

   The junior medic pauses for just a moment before shifting through some more files and bringing up another diagram.

   “Ah! And that’s the hole you make with your fingers!”

   First Aid draws back a little and fixes Tailgate with an inquisitive stare.

   “You know,” the minibot exclaims, “it goes like this!”

   Tailgate proceeds to demonstrate by making a circle with his thumb and first finger and sticking a finger of the opposite hand into the hole repeatedly in his enthusiasm.

   “Perceptor taught me that!”

   First Aid nods in a kind of daze but doesn’t say anything.

   “So how do I know if I have one of those?”

   “Oh, well,” First Aid clears his intake. “If you have them, then they’re already attached to you.”

   “Attached! Where?” Tailgate strains to turn his head and look at his back. It’s the part of himself that’s difficult to see and if he has a spike or a valve, they’re probably hiding somewhere back there.

   “No, no,” First Aid halts Tailgate’s efforts with a hand on his shoulder. “They’d be hidden, tucked away here.”

   The junior medic gestures so briefly that Tailgate’s not even a hundred percent sure if First Aid is gesturing at his abdomen or his legs. Either way, Tailgate is pretty sure he doesn’t have anything that looks like a giant finger or a hole hiding behind his plating.

   “I don’t think I have either. Can I get one?”

   “Oh! Well, yes. I don’t see why you couldn’t. But you don’t have to. Well, you do if you want to interface but, well…actually that’s not strictly true but, in general…Strictly speaking, you can live without it. Some of the older models do…”

   “Like Ratchet?” Tailgate quips.

   First Aid’s frame freezes though his mouth never stops running. “Ah! Maybe but that’s absolutely none of my business. I mean Ratchet can do whatever Ratchet does! I would never presume to tell him...I…I guess I’m saying it’s just a very personal decision.”

   “A personal decision?”

   “Yes, I’m not sure what’s prompted this but, Tailgate, this is your frame." First Aid taps pointedly on Tailgate's chest. "If you want an array, that’s perfectly fine. But if you don’t, that’s ok too. Understand? I want to make sure you make a decision based on what _you_ want.”

   “What I want?" Tailgate mutters. He's pretty sure he wants an interface array. But maybe it's not supposed to be that simple. Maybe this is a bigger deal than he thought. "Oh, so you’re saying maybe I should think about it then?”

   “Yes, of course! It is quite the decision and, if you do decide you’d like to have one installed, that’s a pretty thorough operation. No doubt, you’ll have to clear it with Ratchet since he’ll be the primary surgeon. In fact, you should probably have a talk with Ratchet about this sooner than later. Probably Rung too.”

   Tailgate still has more questions. Like what Rung's got to do with getting an array. And why it matters to anyone else whether or not Tailgate gets one. And if he does get an array, is he supposed to choose between one with a spike and one with a valve? Or is it a luck of the draw kind of thing? The minibot starts to ask but he’s interrupted by a shout from Ambulon.

   “First Aid, I need you over here!”

   First Aid darts out of the plastic barrier and Tailgate shimmies off the berth to follow after. The two drunk mechs are up and about with Ambulon firmly planted between them. The medic keeps the two larger mechs from starting up their row again with nothing more than a classic 'medic's scowl' and his outstretched hands, one of which still holds a severed arm. Just when Tailgate thinks things might get messy, Ultra Magnus walks calmly into the medibay and the drunks absolutely whither under the SIC’s glare.

   "Well, it's about time," Ambulon mutters.

   Something tells Tailgate First Aid is probably going to be busy again for a while and he decides to come back tomorrow. At least now he knows what a spike and valve look like! And that he, in fact, does not have either. The minibot slips through the medibay doors in search of a place to process his newest findings and mull over this whole situation.

***

   First Aid sighs in relief when Ultra Magnus finally wrangles the two drunken bots out of the medibay and toward the brig with a promise to bring them back for repairs when they've sobered up.

   "Tailgate, I'm sorry about that interruption. Why don't we duck into Ratchet's office and continue this discussion in..." First Aid takes a quick look around the room and catches no sign of the minibot.

   "Where'd he go?" First Aid asks the other medic blankly.

   Ambulon shrugs making the extra limb in his hand flop comically. "I don't know. Kinda had my hands full."

   Belatedly, Ambulon realizes the awful irony and dumps the arm on the closest berth with disgust.

   First Aid groans and sends a message to a very short list of mechs he trusts to be on the lookout for Tailgate. If the minibot goes around asking non-medical mechs about interface arrays, then the largest collection of weirdos and perverts the ship has to offer is going to turn up on Tailgate's doorstep with 'advice.' And then Cyclonus will probably come looking for First Aid. And Primus knows that's not how the medic wants to die. First Aid wonders if this is a taste of what it's like to be CMO.

  


	4. Chapter 4

   The halls of the Lost Light are pretty empty during that chunk of time between the hour Swerve’s bar closes and the change between second and third shift duties. Every once in a while, it’s a nice time for Tailgate to take a stroll knowing a bunch of bigger bots aren’t going to accidentally bowl him over if they don’t see his tiny frame in time. But right now he’d give just about anything to run into another bot, even literallly. Tailgate’s been circling the halls for an awful long time thinking about…well, he’s not really sure what he’s supposed to be thinking about so he’s mostly thinking about figuring out what he’s supposed to be thinking about! And it’s not done much but make his little feet hurt and his little head ache.

   First Aid said that if Tailgate wanted an interface array, he could have one but that he should think about it first. There doesn’t seem to be much to think about. If an interface array can make bots feel good, why wouldn’t Tailgate want one? Is he not supposed to want one? Maybe it’s a selfish thing to want an array for pleasure? Is that why First Aid wants Tailgate to see Rung? Because he’s being selfish?

   “Oh!” Tailgate moans in distress. "This is way more complicated than I thought it would be!"

   “You ok there, little guy?”

   Tailgate spins around with a halting ‘eep’ caught in his throat and his little hands clenched in surprise.

   The red and orange mech towering over him with hands on shiny hips just smirks in good-natured amusement.

   “Oh,” Tailgate sighs in relief. He’s not sure who he thought it was but a small part of him might have been worried it was Whirl again. “It’s just you, Rodimus.”

   “Just me?” The mech parrots quietly, ego chaffing.

   There’s a small chuckle behind the captain and Tailgate now notices a second mech hovering nearby like the Captain’s shadow. “Um, hello, Drift.”

   “Good evening. Tailgate, right?”

   “Oh, sure. You get a ‘hello.” Rodimus mutters at the swordsmech. But as Rodimus tends to do, he tosses the potential offense aside and plows right on with enthusiasm. “What’s up, Tailgate? You were standing there for a solid couple minutes before I spooked you. Something on your processor?”

   It’s a clear invitation but is it right to talk to the captain of the ship about interface arrays? Especially if it’s going to make Tailgate look selfish?

   “I can feel it in your aura,” Drift whispers and it’s not judgmental, just kind of soft and genuinely concerned. “You’re very troubled by something important.”

   Tailgate hasn’t talked to Drift much since the third-in-command never seems to be at Swerve’s despite being Rodimus’ shadow and despite the number of times Tailgate’s seen _Rodimus_ at Swerve’s but the swordsmech really has that kind of ‘wise warrior vibe’ that Rewind likes to say Cyclonus would have if it wasn’t eclipsed by the purple mech’s grumpiness. And if anybody knows how to make a quick decision it’s Rodimus. Soooo…

   “It’s something First Aid said,” Tailgate begins convinced Rodimus and Drift are two mechs he can probably trust with this. “He said it’s a personal decision to get an interface array and that I should give it a lot of thought before I get one.”

   Drift’s posture crumbles a little like he’s leaning down to be sure he’s heard correctly. Rodimus, however, shoots straight up as proud as if he’s just given someone a Rodimus Star.

   “Frag yeah, you should get one!” the captain shouts.

   Now it’s Drift’s turn to stand stock straight and shout. “Rodimus!”

   “What?” Rodimus shrugs. “Why wouldn’t he?”

   “That’s what I keep wondering!” Tailgate flails.

   Drift looks from Rodimus to Tailgate to Rodimus and that ‘wise warrior vibe’ is a little less noticeable.

   Rodimus continues enthusiastically, “Tailgate, if you don’t have an array, and I don’t know why you wouldn’t…oh, wait!...hole in the ground, six million years…ok, yeah. I get it now. ANYWAY, if you want my opinion, you should absolutely have one installed. I don’t know what I’d do to pass the time if I didn’t have one!”

   “CAPTAIN!”

   “Don’t be a prude, Drift. Tailgate asked a question and I’m giving him a straight answer.”

   Tailgate actually hadn’t asked him a question but…

   “Drift?” Tailgate pipes up timidly and is surprised when Drift looks to him to continue. “Do you think I _shouldn’t_ get an interface array?”

   “I…I think…I think First Aid was on to something. I think, perhaps, it is a very personal decision and that no other mech’s opinion, no matter how vocally they might express it-“ he looks pointedly to Rodimus in something akin to a glare- “should dictate your happiness and the peace you have with your frame.”

   Well, that’s pretty much the same thing First Aid said but a little more confusing.

   “Ok, bud.” Rodimus drops to one knee and pats Tailgate companionably on the shoulder before simply resting his servo there. “You ready for some _real_ advice? Having a spike feels awesome. And a valve? Soo good! And if you want that, awesome! Go for it. You gotta take what you want.”

   Drift shifts like he wants to say something but Rodimus waves him off.

   “Hold on! I’m getting to the serious stuff. Can you just…can you back up, Drift? I feel like you’re going to decapitate me or something. Primus!”

   The white mech doesn’t take a step back but he does lean his frame subtly away from Rodimus as he crosses his arms.

   “Thanks. Ok, Tailgate. Here’s the thing, having an interface array feels awesome. And even Drift isn’t arguing that point. But you gotta be careful about who you share it with. I think that’s what First Aid was getting at.”

   Careful who you share it with? Oh, Primus! Apparently this isn’t the sort of thing Tailgate should be talking to the captain about. His faceplate flushes with embarrassment. “So…so I shouldn’t talk to just anybody about this?”

   “Right! It's kinda private. You gotta save this kinda stuff for people you really trust. You know, like the friends you really, really like.”

   Drift clears his intake pointedly.

   Rodimus continues on dryly. “Yeah, the ones you trust and the ones who won’t make you feel like a slut if you frag more than one mech at a ti- OW! THE SLAG, DRIFT!?”

   “And I actually thought you were being tactful for a moment,” the white mech mutters as he rotates his wrist and all of Rodimus follows the movement, his long audial caught between two of Drifts fingers. “Tailgate, Captain Rodimus is correct about one thing. This is a matter best discussed with close friends behind closed doors. And you should absolutely see Ratchet. He’ll straighten you out.”

   “Ye…yeah,” Tailgate stammers over the sound of Rodimus hissing in pain. “I’m sorry! I’ll do that!”

   Before he can embarrass himself anymore, Tailgate bolts down the hall. But Ratchet's not on duty and there's no way Tailgate's going to bother him in his habsuite. A friend behind closed doors? Swerve! Tailgate has to see Swerve!

 

***

   "Well, that was abrupt," Drift notes as the minibot flees around the nearest corner.

   **_PING!_**

   “Oh,” Drift mutters over Rodimus’ increasingly profane threats and curses and he eases his hold on the captain’s audial, “I just got a message from First Aid…about Tailgate.”

   “Really?” Rodimus finally twists from Drift’s grip, rubs his fin sourly, and checks his comm inbox. “I didn’t get one. What’s yours say?”

   “It…ah! Apparently, First Aid is circulating two lists. One of mechs who should talk to Tailgate and one of mechs that absolutely should not.

   “Which am I…”

   “Well, you and I aren’t on the same list and I’m the one who received the message so…”

   “The frag? I give good advice! AND I’m the slagging captain!”

   “You called Tailgate a ‘slut’, Rodimus.”

   “NO! I was trying to make a point. YOU called ME a slut, remember?”

   Drift winces. This was such an old argument, like months old. “Are you really still mad about that? I barely implied it! Just that once!"

   "Mmhmm."

   "But it was for your own good and I apologized immediately!”

   Rodimus throws a single open palm in Drift’s face and then continues silently toward the captain's quarters with his chin raised haughtily.

   "Primus," Drift mutters half curse and half prayer, "here we go again."

   The swordsmech follows the captain to begin damage control. At least Drift is at ease believing Tailgate is already halfway to Ratchet.

 


	5. Chapter 5

   By the time Tailgate reaches Swerve’s bar, he thinks he might actually like a drink. Not a sweet, bubbly little thing like he usually gets. Tailgate wants something that might loosen up a bot like Ultra Magnus and knock a minibot on its aft. Hopefully it’s not too late to inconvenience the ship's only bartender.

   Even though he’ll settle for a little drink, what Tailgate really wants are some answers and he hasn’t got much more than a general idea that this new interface system requires two pieces of new equipment that are meant to be used together and that they feel ‘awesome’ as far as Captain Rodimus is concerned. And that, apparently, Tailgate’s been bothering the wrong people with his problem. Perceptor, First Aid, Rodimus and Drift; they’re all great but Tailgate’s not sure they really count as ‘close friends.’ He’d like to think Cyclonus counts but, being completely honest with himself, Tailgate’s not sure how true that is either. Just because they’re roommates doesn’t mean they’re automatically ‘close’ friends. But there’s a certain comradery among minibots and Swerve seems like the kind of bot who wants to be everyone’s friend. Surely Swerve won’t mind helping Tailgate learn the ins and outs of this new interfacing.

   Tailgate is just preparing to send Swerve a message when the bar doors suddenly whoosh open making the blue and white bot jump.

   “Tailgate!” Swerve shouts, arms thrown wide smack dab in the middle of the doorway. “I was just gonna go find you!”

   “You were?” Tailgate’s visor flashes when he resets it in surprise.

   “Yeah! Come on in.” The red and white minibot takes Tailgate by the crook of his arm and urges him inside. “Woulda found ya sooner but I had to clean up the bar a little first. I swear this crew’s a riot but sometimes they leave the bar looking like they actually started one! Ya know what I mean?”

   Swerve laughs heartily and ushers Tailgate right up to the empty stools around the bar.

   Tailgate glances around wondering if they’re completely alone. They seem to be but… “Um, is Whirl still…”

   “What? Oh! Don’t worry about him. He’s long gone! Ratchet hauled him outta here a little after you left. And wow, you left in a hurry!” Swerve gestures for Tailgate to take a seat at the bar and joins his guest on the patron side for once.

   “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” Tailgate shifts as the embarrassment creeps back fresh as if he’d just been whisked from this very stool.

   “Naw, I get it. The Cyclonus Express only operates at two speeds; ‘drying paint’ and ‘aft on fire.’”

   Tailgate giggles even if the visual image doesn’t help soothe his pinking cheeks. “You said you were coming to look for me?”

   “Oh!” Swerve jumps in his seat like he’s forgotten entirely and then it’s his turn to blush a little. “Well, I just wanted to apologize for what happened.”

   Tailgate cocks his head. Getting hauled out of the place was embarrassing but it wasn’t something Swerve could control. Unless… “You mean what happened with Whirl? That wasn’t your fault. And apologizing for Whirl seems like it might be a full time job. I think you should stick to tending the bar.”

   Swerve can always be counted on to laugh at a joke no matter how bad but he barely offers Tailgate a soft chuckle.

   “No, not just Whirl.” Swerve waves at the bar in general looking almost miserable. “I mean the whole thing. I don’t remember who started the topic but…well, nobody had any right to tease you the way they did. I got to really thinking about it while I was tidying up and it kinda hit me. You were stuck underground for six million years! Maybe you’d never heard it called…well, what Whirl said. You really had no idea what we were talking about did you?”

   Tailgate stops venting for a moment and only realizes when his frame starts to heat up. Was everyone else teasing him? He hadn’t really noticed. He was so busy trying to come up with answers for Whirl. Trying to lie. To impress mechs. And look how far that had gotten him. But Tailgate and Swerve are already friends, right?

   “No, I didn’t know,” Tailgate admits as he tugs nervously at his fingers. If Swerve had guessed, how many of the others know Tailgate is clueless? Now he really feels like slag.

   “…You want a drink?” Swerve offers in response to Tailgate’s slumping shoulders.

   Tailgate nods emphatically.

   Instead of walking around the long way, Swerve simply stands on his stool and hops onto the bar before shimmying off the other side. In no time at all, a short glass of something blue with white froth at the top appears in front of Tailgate with his customary curly straw.

   “Ta da!” Swerve presents it with waggling fingers. “Brand new, just for you. I think I’ll call it ‘Blue Bomber’ or maybe the ‘Mighty Mini.’ Or, if you like it, I’ll start calling it a ‘Tailgate Special.’ Whaddaya think?”

   “You’d name it after me?” Tailgate takes a tentative sip and then another when the drinks proves to be delicious.

   “Sure! Anything for one of my pals.”

   That feels almost as good as Swerve’s drink tastes and Tailgate hums around the straw in his intake.

   “Good, huh?” Swerve leans against the counter with his head in his hands and grins that special Swerve grin.

   “It’s really good!” Tailgate confirms and takes another long pull of the sweet liquid. It warms his tank quickly. It might be a little stronger than his usual but it feels good so what does he care? “Swerve, can I ask you something, since we’re friends?”

   Swerve seems surprised but nods eagerly.

   “It’s about interfacing,” Tailgate warns just in case he’s misread things again. He wants to make sure Swerve has an opportunity to tell him to stop talking if they aren’t supposed to discuss this sort of thing. Tailgate gives Swerve a moment to consider and takes another long drink to give himself something to do.

   Swerve’s white cheeks turn a rosy shade but he leans a little closer to Tailgate across the bar. “Yeah? If you want to talk about it. Go ahead.”

   Tailgate sits a little taller, like a weight has been lifted. “I saw First Aid. Turns out, I don’t have an interface array.”

   Swerve’s cheeks look almost purple but it might just be the glow of his blue visor flashing in surprise.

   The white and blue minibot presses on before that response can make him feel bashful. “The thing is, now that I know what it is, I really want one. At least, I’m pretty sure. But I wouldn’t even know what to do with it if I had one. And Rodimus says this is the kind of thing you share with friends you really, really like and trust.”

   “…Oh,” Swerve mutters quieter than Tailgate’s ever heard him say, well, anything really. “So…Cyclonus?”

   Tailgate's drink makes an awful spluttering noise as he yanks away from his straw mid-suck and rears back so hard he almost falls off his stool. “Oh...No. No, I asked him but he was kind of in a hurry I think. Actually, I was thinking about you.”

   “Oh…” There’s a frightening moment where it looks like Swerve might have a glitch. His visor keeps flashing and his fingers twitch on the bar counter. Finally he shouts, “OH! You actually mean _me_? For real?”

   Primus! Tailgate’s messed this up somehow. Swerve's face is all twisted and he seems really confused and upset somehow so Tailgate rushes to brush the whole thing away. “I mean you don’t have to! I can find somebody else to teach me. I just thought, maybe because we’re friends, and it's all new to me that you wouldn’t mind but…I’m sorry, Swerve! I shouldn’t have asked!”

   “Ah! Wait!” Swerve waves his hands frantically. “I didn’t say ‘no.’ I was just surprised. You’re sure you want me to…to...I…I’d love to! I mean…I’d be honored! If that’s what you want.”

   “Really?” Tailgate marvels.

   “Yeah! I mean, I really like you too. And the first time can be pretty rough if you don’t wind up with somebody careful. Especially with you being a minibot. I might not have the most experience but I know what I’m doing. I…“ Swerve clears his intake and stares at the countertop, “…I’ll make sure it’s good.”

   Swerve’s face looks like it’s on fire! Even so, Tailgate’s spark is soaring. He feels happy and so warm! Finally, someone is going to teach him about interfacing! Even if Swerve’s never taught another bot before and their first lesson might be a little rough, he’s still willing to teach Tailgate like a good friend. Tailgate climbs onto his stool to lean over the counter and give Swerve a huge hug for being so wonderful.

   Or at least he tries.

   Tailgate loses his balance the moment he starts to rise and plops right back onto his aft. His whole processor swims and that hurts way more than his bottom. “Owww!”

   “Oh, scrap!” Swerve grabs Tailgate’s shoulder to keep him steady on the stool with one hand and swipes Tailgate’s drink with the other. He holds it up to the light and then takes a big whiff of it. “Whoah! Might have been a little harder than I thought! You ok, Tailgate?”

   Tailgate nods but the room moves in ways it’s definitely not supposed to so he settles for whispering. “I’m fine.”

   “Slag, I’m so sorry!” Swerve scrambles back over the bar and it makes Tailgate dizzy just trying to watch. “We should get you to a berth. Can I help you back to your habsuite?”

   Tailgate would really like to stay and talk some more but he feels like his body might float away in the middle of the conversation. He starts to nod to Swerve’s offer, having already forgotten about the swirling room and is met with a brutal reminder the same time Swerve works him off the bar stool and onto the quicksand that apparently now covers the bar's floor.

   “Swerve?” the blue and white bot mumbles as the other minibot hauls him upright.

   “Yeah, Tailgate?”

   “You’re a good friend. I’m gon’ be happy to learn from you.”

   Fire shoots to Swerve’s face even as he grips Tailgate a little tighter.

   “But it’s ok if I learn from other bots too right?”

   “Uh, yeah,” Swerve mutters even though he sounds a little disappointed, “It doesn’t have to be exclusive if that’s not what you want.”

   “I don’t wanna share it with everybody,” Tailgate slurs just a little bit as he thinks about what Rodimus said. “Just you, and probably Rewind, and maybe Cyclonus if he doesn't just run away from me. But not Whirl, I don’t think I want to share this with Whirl. And you’re still the first.”

   As they cross into the hall, Swerve clears his intake. “Well, it’s your choice and that’s probably a good call on Whirl.”

   “Yeah. Just you an' Rewind an' maybe Cyclonus an' nobody else. I don’t wanna be a slut.”

   Swerve’s mouth gapes in surprise but before he can exclaim or protest, Tailgate pokes him playfully in the side.

   “Hey, Swerve?”

   “Yeah, buddy?” Swerve swallows thickly, still recovering from his shock.

   “Your name is fun to say. Swerve. Swerrrrrr-“

   “...Ok, buddy.”

   “-rrrrrrrrrrr-veh.”

   “Primus,” Swerve mutters to himself as they sway down the hall, “Cyclonus is gonna murder me if he sees us.”

   “It’s fine. I’ll be in disguise. I’ll just transform,” Tailgate mumbles, “an’ you can push me back.”

   Swerve laughs a little and pulls the other minibot up when Tailgate tries to slide to the floor while making the transformation noise with his mouth. “I think we’d better walk, buddy.”

***

   As soon as Tailgate is safely tucked on his recharge slab and the habsuite door closes, Swerve vents in relief. Every second in Tailgate and Cyclonus’ suite felt like a year tiptoeing through a minefield. Twice, Swerve swore he saw a huge, mono-horned silhouette but it just turned out to be his imagination.

   Not that Swerve has anything to feel guilty about. Tailgate came to him after all. Yeah, he accidentally got Tailgate a little overcharged but that is beside the point.

   Tailgate. Sweet, little Tailgate. Sweet, little Tailgate with a list of mechs to frag.

   Being part of a list doesn’t exactly tickle Swerve’s fancy. But, hey! Tailgate has declared Swerve first and isn’t that something! He’s always been more inclined toward romance but Swerve is not exactly upset by Tailgate’s honest request to interface. Primus knows it's hard enough for a minibot to get some love when all the 'regular' sized bots are indifferent or paired up or have really intensely scary minibot fetishes. Swerve will not let it be said he doesn’t know how to share or appreciate when he's got something good but maybe Tailgate won’t want to go to any other mech after Swerve. Maybe he'll have such a good time with Swerve that Tailgate won't want to finish out that list. Now that really might be something!

   Or what if…what if it’s goes badly? What if Tailgate hates it? What if Swerve’s not as good as he remembers/assumes due to lack of accurate memory since it’s been practically forever since the last time he actually interfaced! Oh slag!

   Swerve whirls to rush back toward the bar while he hails his super smooth ace on the comm. “Primus, Skids! You better not be asleep ‘cause I got a pit of a situation here and I need some serious 'cool guy' advice!”


	6. Chapter 6

   So there is a spike and a valve. They look like a big finger and a tube with a slit at one end. They go together. Like the finger that goes into the hole. The spike is the finger, the valve is the hole. You put the spike in the valve…and somehow, that feels ‘awesome.’

   Tailgate frowns at his interlocking fingers, trying to really make sense of it. But it’s not just the ‘how’ that’s giving him trouble.

   It’s a private thing, a personal thing to talk about spikes and valves. You’re only supposed to talk about it with ‘close friends’ and bots you trust but some mechs talk about it in bars and that’s…bad? But they had looked like they were having a good time. Maybe Swerve just doesn’t like to talk about those kinds of interfacing things. Maybe that’s why his face was so red during Tailgate’s visit. Maybe Swerve was just too nice to tell Tailgate to quit bothering him.

   Tailgate lets his hands flop back to the recharge slab and glares up at the darkened ceiling of his habsuite. He’s doing this all wrong, he just knows it! He’s making everybody uncomfortable and he’s probably being selfish to want an interface array for pleasure in the first place. There are other things that make him happy. Things like movie night and going to Swerve's and singing with Cyclonus and…and…SCRAP!

   The minibot resets his optics a couple of times and carefully sits up (only failing twice when his head swims a bit too much.) He’s forgotten all about Cyclonus! This is a shared habsuite after all.

   “Can’t let…” Tailgate gets distracted by the lingering sweetness in his intake. That was one deceptive little drink! A blue, little liar…it should be called a ‘Tailgate’ he muses sadly. Lying is what got him into this whole social catastrophe. He vents slowly as he slips off the side of his berth. “Can’t let Cyclonus see me like this. He’ll just scowl and be all like-“

   Here Tailgate tries to stand on his tiptoes and lowers his helm and his voice in what is an admittedly poor approximation of Cyclonus “-‘Tailgate you are such a pain. You talk too much and you ask too many questions and I have to save you from situations you don’t even understand and…’ Whoah!”

   The minibot pauses when a strong smell of engex washes back against his mask and he remembers he is totally drunk.

   ‘“And you’re totally drunk!’” He continues in poorly-done-Cyclonus-scolding-tone.

   He’s totally drunk and tired and rude and selfish and…and he decides it’s time to go see Rung. Even at this hour, Tailgate knows the orange mech’s office door will be open and there will probably be rust sticks and that comfy couch and maybe Rung will let Tailgate cuddle up to him like his first days on the _Lost Light_ when Tailgate was still figuring out how much it sucked to be lost underground for six million years and have no one seem to notice you were even gone and…yeah, it’s time to see Rung.

   But walking also sucks right now, given that Tailgate doesn’t get two steps from the berth before he’s reaching back to stabilize himself. Travelling as close to the floor as possible sounds like a better alternative to falling so Tailgate, very carefully, transforms into vehicle mode. He hiccups as his sloshing tank readjusts and proceeds to roll out of his habsuite.

*****

   Within minutes, Tailgate is lost. He knows most of the halls of the _Lost Light_ but he rarely travels them in vehicle mode and his vision’s still a little blurry around the edge. It does not help at all that the ship has reached that magical hour where most of the mechs aboard are in recharge so the hall lights dim to a mere fraction of their usual output to preserve power. It makes all kinds of weird shadows and Tailgate’s not exactly scared but, maybe, rolls around each corner with a bit more caution than usual.

   Everything’s fine, really, until he catches a shadow in his rear view mirror. A moving shadow! Tailgate tries to laugh it off, his nervous titter echoing in this form. Everything’s fine! Really! It’s all good. Alll gooood.

   Until the shadow moves again! Tailgate squeaks and revs his engine a bit harder than intended. He clears the hall like it were a drag strip and fishtails around the corner. He slows down, but just barely, as his spark spins wildly. He talks himself back from a panic attack.

   “Nothing there, Tailgate. You silly, scaredy cybercat. Just a little shadow. Innocent little shadow. Itty, bitty, baaaaby shadow.”

   But just in case, Tailgate does a uturn at the next intersection and backs into a crossing hallway, his nose poking just far enough around the corner to watch the spot he came from. He’s just about convinced it’s some kind of half-drunken trick of the light and this will just be a very private, very embarrassing memory for days to come when a dark shape slinks around the far corner. The shadow enters the hall and it’s big! Big and hunched and spiky and scary with two glowing, red eyes and charging in Tailgate’s direction! Tailgate’s terrified shriek makes his own audials buzz and he takes off like a speedster with a rocket strapped onto its aft.

   Tailgate’s tires squeal in protest as he flies down hall after hall and peals around every corner. His spark is slamming against its case and Tailgate only belatedly realizes he’s screaming and that’s not going to help him lose the creepy shadow so he mutes himself abruptly and lets his internal dialogue do the panicking for him!

   _Oh please, oh please, oh please! Primus, please! Don’t let it be another Sparkeater! Not another Sparkeater! No, no, no, no, no! I just wanted to know about interfacing!_

Long after the shadowed figure vanishes from Tailgate’s mirrors, he continues to flee. He feels exhausted and sick and his chassis shakes with the force of his engine but his spark still whirls in fear so he keeps driving. The only thing that stops him at all is a very sudden lack of hallway. Tailgate skids to a stop in a move that makes his brakes ache but it’s a small price to pay for not smashing into a million pieces against a dead end. Tailgate throws it into reverse, backing into the open hall to take that left turn he saw a quarter mile back, and screams when his bumper hits something.

   Another shriek echoes above him and Tailgate knows it’s a Sparkeater screaming for a taste of his panicked little spark.

   Tailgate changes gears, to drive, to just get away! But something clamps on either side of his frame and he’s being lifted up, way above the floor.

 _"_ NO! NO! NO!"

His tires are still spinning frantically, hopelessly. The grip tightens. Tailgate squirms just enough to transform. The Sparkeater fumbles the minibot but snatches him up again just moments before he can hit the floor. Tailgate kicks and wiggles and scratches at the arms wrapped around him and now he’s really screaming.

   “LET ME GO! LET ME GO! DON’T EAT MY SPARK!”

   Something clamps over his mouth.

   _My brain! He’s gonna rip out my brain!_

But those arms just hold him tight and as Tailgate’s energy starts to fade, he squirms less and he can hear the thing whispering at him.

   “Shhh! Shhh! It’s ok. I’m not gonna eat your spark!”

   _Exactly what a Sparkeater **would** say!_

“Shhhh, Tailgate. It’s me. It’s Red Alert!”

   Tailgate goes limp. If a Sparkeater was gonna pretend to be someone else, why of all mechs would it choose to be Red Alert? Tailgate stops screaming against the hand over his face and twists to look up at his captor.

   Whaddaya know…it looks an awful lot like Red Alert. And he looks about as scared as Tailgate.

   “Whaphwabla-“ Belatedly, Tailgate pulls Red Alert’s hand from his face and the bigger mech allows it. “What are you doing? You scared me!”

   Red Alert doesn’t seem to really be bothered as Tailgate beats his tiny fists against red plating in a nasty mix of horror, frustration, and relief.

   “You scared _me_!” Red Alert objects to the little bot in his arms. “I was doing my rounds and I heard tires squealing. When I ran around the corner, you backed right into me! Nearly sent me into sparkfailure. What are you doing? Racing in the hall?”

   “I…I thought something was chasing me,” Tailgate mumbles as that all too familiar blush invades his face. “I thought it looked like a Sparkeater.”

   “Sparkeater?” Red Alert frowns. “No way. I triple checked after that first incident. I went over every inch of the ship’s blue prints. There aren’t any Sparkeaters on board. I swear it!”

   “Sorry…I’m sorry,” Tailgate mumbles as he holds his head. All this adrenaline is killing his already not-awesome state of health. “I’m…still a little overcharged after Swerve's. I probably imagined the whole thing. I’m sorry.”

   Warm sympathy radiates off Red Alert as he gently lowers Tailgate to the floor. “Hey, no worries. But what are you doing out? Swerve’s closed hours ago. You should be sleeping it off in your room like everyone else. It’s not safe for you to be racing around in the dark. Let me take you back to your room.”

   “No! Wait!”

   Red Alert waits patiently and even offers Tailgate a hand to steady himself when the minibot looks a little less than stable.

   “I don’t wanna go back. Wanna see Rung.”

   “Oh.” Red Alert squats to put himself eye level with the minibot and then he continues sheepishly. “Umm, none of my business but… I’m guessing you want to talk to him about nightmares?”

   Tailgate cocks his head. The lingering engex makes him both confused and far too honest. “No. About Interfacing.”

   Red Alert blinks. And blinks again. And again.

   The white and blue minibot vents wearily. He did kind of owe the Security Officer an explanation for driving around the halls like a mad mech. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or scare you off. I know it’s supposed to be private but…”

   Now that he's standing still, it feels like that engex is really catching up with him. Tailgate finally decides he no longer cares about all the etiquette and rules he doesn't even know about and shrugs a full body shrug. “I’m just looking for a valve. Or a spike. At this point, I don’t know that it really matters which. But, yeah, that’s why I’m going to see Rung.”

   Red Alert blinks. And blinks again. And again. And frowns.

   “…oh. Tailgate and…Rung? Wouldn’t have seen that one coming,” Red Alert mumbles to himself while staring at the ceiling like he's mapping something out. “Was pretty sure Cyclonus...”

   “What about Cyclonus?” Tailgate asks having not made out any of the soft mumbling save his roommate’s name.

   “Nevermind.” Red Alert clears his throat and stands while crossing his arms. “Not really my business unless it risks security, right?"

   Tailgate starts to nod, less an intelligent and more an automatic response and abruptly sits on the floor with a groan.

   "But you…you’re really pretty drunk aren’t you?” Red Alert asks.

   Tailgate nods, much slower this time.

   “Why don’t you let me escort you to Rung?”

   “Oh,” Tailgate sighs with palpable relief, “would you, please?”

   The blue and white minibot doesn't really think about it before holding his arms up to Red Alert. For his part, Red Alert simply smiles and picks Tailgate off the floor. There is definitely a merit to being drunk around larger mechs, Tailgate muses.

   "When you see Rung, do me a favor?" Red Alert mumbles almost nervously. "Don't tell him about that little episode we had. You know, with all the screaming. Don't want him to think I need extra sessions."

****

   Having Tailgate in his arms may just be the highlight of Red Alert's shift. Once Tailgate's spark isn't spinning in his chest like a cornered petrorabbit, the thrum of a mech's systems in miniature is incredibly soothing against red plating. Little guys, they're just seriously the best! How could anybody not be crazy for minibots? When you carry one in your arms, you feel twice as big and twice as brave and if you protect one, you feel twice as accomplished. No wonder Cyclonus glares at anybot who gets too close to Tailgate. Not that he doesn't glare at everybody anyway, but there's definitely an extra special back-away-from-Tailgate glare. Red Alert can tell the difference because Tailgate's presence is notably the only difference to determine which Cyclonus glare Red gets. Maybe Cyclonus can sense how much the Security Officer would just love to pick up Tailgate and never put him down again.

   But apparently that warning glare is as far as Tailgate and Cyclonus' relationship goes because here is drunken Tailgate, in the dead of off hours, bound and determined to get a little action from Rung of all mechs! Which is probably not going to end well for Tailgate. Rung doesn't strike Red Alert as the kind of mech to frag drunks.

   When they reach Rung’s office, Red Alert reluctantly eases the minibot down, offers him an encouraging salute, and hangs back just far enough that he’s not going to cramp Tailgate’s style. He does stick around though. If nothing else, maybe he'll get to hold Tailgate again when the ship's shrink turns him down.

   Tailgate sways a little on tiny feet before knocking. Minibots! Even drunk they're unbearably cute! Maybe especially drunk'? Whatever. Red Alert's always had a fascination with anybot half his size or less. They're smaller with less space to hide recording devices or secrets in general. Except Rewind. The camera completely cancels the cuteness.

   When Rung answers the door, he seems absolutely relieved to see Tailgate. Not just pleasantly surprised like he is when Red Alert shows up for a session but like, actually, visibly, thank-goodness-you’re-here-relieved.

   “Tailgate!” The orange mech takes tiny, white hands and squeezes them. “I’m so pleased to see you. Come right in.”

   Red Alert doesn’t miss a single moment of contact between Tailgate and the therapist’s plating or the warmth in Rung’s EM field or the way Tailgate stands a little straighter.

   When Rung’s optics finally finish roving over Tailgate in some kind of inspection, he looks up to finally acknowledge Red Alert standing off to the side. “Thank you for escorting Tailgate. You’ve done us both a great favor.”

   “Awful late for an appointment,” Red Alert points out.

   Rung just smiles. “No, not an appointment. Just a casual affair.”

   Red Alert nods mutely. ‘Casual affair.’ Holy moly! How has he not heard anyone mention these two? They really are an item? And here he thought Tailgate was on a drunken course toward disappointment. Not that Red Alert can’t see the appeal from both sides but, seriously, he has never heard a word about this pair! His surveillance must be slipping. He once again kicks himself for not reinstalling the cameras in Rung’s office. Then he makes a conscious effort of not imagining what that means he's missing, what might be going on in that office after he leaves. Yup, not imaging a hot and tiny tangle of blue and white and orange on that couch that Red Alert will be sitting on during his next visit with Rung.

   “I’ll see you in two days, right? Red Alert?”

   The security officer snaps back to attention. “Yeah. Yeah, Rung. See you then.”

   As he departs, Red Alert turns and offers Tailgate a covert thumbs up. The blue and white bot returns the gesture then lets Rung lead him into the office. Tailgate and Rung are frag buddies? Who woulda thought? It's a shame two tiny mechs are tied to each other but...Idly, Red Alert wonders if Swerve is still awake.


	7. Chapter 7

   “Oh goodness!” Rung blinks at the back of his office door as soon as he’s closed it. “That may have been a poor choice of words.”

   “What was?” Tailgate mumbles.

   “Don’t worry yourself over it.” Rung smiles kindly and gestures toward the comfy couch Tailgate remembers from last time. “Our Security Chief isn't prone to gossip. I’ll simply send Red Alert a message to clarify.”

   Tailgate eases back onto the couch with a grateful sigh. It seems his grand prix through the hall has burned off the most excessive charge leaving him worn out but strangely alert at the same time.

   “I’m glad you came, Tailgate. Rust stick?” Rung pulls a pack from his subspace and shakes a few of the treats to the edge of the container for easy access. “First Aid is rather worried about you.”

   “First Aid?” Tailgate cocks his head in puzzlement and slips one of the rust sticks from the pack.

   “It seems the two of you were having a very important conversation when you suddenly disappeared.”

   “Oh! I…I, uh…thought maybe he was too busy so I let myself out. It wasn’t all that important anyway.” Tailgate stares at the rust stick until his knees beyond blur in his vision. He doesn’t even really want to eat it. It just feels nice to hold it for a little bit. Rust stick? Check. Comfy couch? Check. Yeah, things are already better.

   “I get the feeling it was important to you. Would you like to talk about it now?” Rung takes a causal seat on the corner of his desk.

   Tailgate fidgets. He does have a lot of unanswered questions. Probably more than he started with! But he did come here to feel better, not to make things worse again by blabbing away at whoever can stand still long enough to listen. “You’re sure you’re not busy or anything?”

   “Absolutely sure. And don’t think of this as a session, Tailgate. We’re simply having a friendly chat.”

   Tailgate fidgets and tilts his helm one way then another as he weighs his options.  Rung smiles in encouragement and leans forward to offer another treat. After a moment of hesitation, Tailgate perks up and grabs a second rust stick. He doesn’t eat either right away, choosing to drum them against his thighs instead while he figures out what he wants to say. He’s had a couple of attempts at this already but most of the resulting conversations were less than satisfying. Though the one thing he has definitely learned is that if they’re going to have this conversation, it’s best to ease into it.

   “Do you have an interface array, Rung?”

   Easing into the conversation must be a success considering that Rung’s smile just gets bigger and he even laughs a little. Finally, the orange mech leans a fraction closer as if he wants to tell Tailgate something private. “Tailgate, some mech’s prefer not to discuss interface matters openly. Some find it an extremely personal topic, others are sometimes ashamed or even afraid to talk about it.”

   Oh, maybe not so much a success. The rust sticks in Tailgate’s fists droop a little.

   “I, however, find it just another facet of life and would not mind discussing such things with you here. So, yes, I do have an interface array. Is there a reason you ask?”

   Tailgate sits a little straighter in surprise. A clear answer? Just wow! Those are rare. “Oh! Well, you’re a little older than most bots on the ship. So you probably had to have yours installed, right? Would…would you say that having an array is ‘awesome?”

   Expressive eyebrows spring up in amusement. “Interface can often be…quite enjoyable with the proper partner. Some might even call it awesome.”

   “So you would say that having an interface array is a good thing. But could it somehow be a bad thing too?”

   “There’s a little of both in everything, isn’t there?” Rung leans a little farther back with his hands braced on the desk behind him, ankles crossed. “Tailgate, it’s alright. I think there may be something specific you want to know and it’s perfectly fine to come out and ask. You can speak freely here.”

   Well, yeah. Yeah! If there’s one mech onboard that Tailgate can tell anything to without being judged, it’s Rung. That’s kind of the orange mech’s job, isn’t it?

   “Ok, so-” Decision made, the blue and white mini draws in a deep vent and quickly launches into an abridged version of the day’s crazy events. “I was at Swerve’s and everyone was talking about spiking and getting spiked and I had _no_ idea what that meant. But I didn’t want _them_ to know that _I_ didn’t know because there’s already so much stuff I don’t know and I don’t wanna feel different all the time so I…well I sorta acted like I knew exactly what they meant. Except, I might have said the wrong thing and…well, I think Whirl was trying to offer me something when Cyclonus showed up and dragged me back to our room. Which was a little embarrassing too. And then I found out I _really_ didn’t know what they were talking about at Swerve’s. Cyclonus taught me spiking is a new kind of interfacing but when I tried to ask more he ran away before he told me anything really useful so I had to ask Perceptor instead beacause I figured he knows everything. While we were hiding from Brainstorm, Perceptor was nice enough to demonstrate for me. It’s like this!“

   Tailgate does the finger-in the-hole-thing the scientist taught him. Rung does not smile this time but he nods slowly which means he must understand so Tailgate presses on eagerly at double the speed.

   “It was like that but with a spike and a valve. After he showed me, Perceptor told me I should see Ratchet but Ratchet wasn’t in the medibay because he was at Swerve’s so I talked to First Aid about getting new equipment. He showed me some weird pictures of a spike and a valve and then there were these two mechs wrestling around and beating each other and Ambulon was all out of breath and shouted ‘First, Aid, I need you!’ I left since First Aid looked like he and Ambulon were going to be busy all night.

   Rung momentarily looks like he wants to intereject something but Tailgate’s face is already beginning to flush in embarrassment as he thinks back on all the mech’s he has bothered tonight so he pushes on quickly before he can change his mind about telling his story.

   “So I was trying to figure out if I wasn’t supposed to have an array because it’s selfish but I ran into Rodimus and he was really excited for me to get one. He told me it would be awesome. And even though Drift told me it was my decision, he kinda acted like having an array could be a bad thing. I think because if I had one, then I might be a slut. Rung, has anyone ever told you that you might be a slut?”

   The psychiatrist straightens slowly, head dipping to the side and super expressive eyebrows creeping almost impossibly higher in the middle. Tailgate squirms uneasily at Rung’s face. Rung doesn’t mind talking about interfacing but maybe being a slut, whatever that is, is too private.

   “I..I’m sorry! You don’t have to answer that.” Tailgate stumbles over his words and holds the comforting rust sticks a little closer to his chest as he tries to press on. “I guess it’s slang. Like ‘scrap’, you know? That used to mean refuse or left overs but now bots use it like a curse word. But a little nicer. Like a ‘soft’ curse word? Anyway, I went to Swerve’s next because I was pretty sure there was way more for me to learn. He said he’d teach me about interfacing but I got a little too overcharged before he took me back to my room. I don’t remember everything that happened then. I think I might have slipped offline for a minute ‘cuz the next time my optics came back online I was laid out on my recharge slab and everything hurt. I didn’t want Cyclonus to see me like that and I was feeling really bad about what happened with Swerve so I decided to come see you! But on my way here there was some bot in the hall and it chased me for a really long time. I think it wanted to eat me! Though that might have been my imagination. Then Red Alert cornered me. I was really scared and he…well, he told me not to tell you what happened. Anyway, after we did that thing, he picked me off the floor and carried me to you.”

   “You…” Rung is stuck poised halfway between his desk and Tailgate like some kind of statue, hand outstretched like he maybe thought about touching Tailgate but decided against it. He seems to be at a loss for words though his face cycles through about a dozen different expressions so quickly that Tailgate has trouble guessing what the orange mech is thinking. “Perceptor…demonstrated? And…and First Aid showed you pictures. Rodimus told you he wanted you to have an array and Drift implied an array would make you a…a slut. Swerve took you to berth while you were overcharged. Then Red Alert cornered and threatened you?”

   “...umm…” That was more or less what Tailgate said except Rung looks unreasonably upset. Probably because he thought Red had threatened Tailgate which was not what the blue mini said at all! “Red Alert didn’t threaten me! He just said not to tell you what we did in the hall.”

   “Tailgate!” Rung kneels directly in front of Tailgate and he looks like his spark is breaking. “Are you telling me that…at any point tonight, were you taken advantage of?”

   Taken advantage of? No one made Tailgate do anything he didn’t want to. Well, Cyclonus made him leave Swerve’s but that’s nothing for Rung to be sparkbroken about. So what are they even talking about? One of the rust sticks cracks as Tailgate clenches his hands in exasperation. “Wait. What?”

   “I’m sending Ultra Magnus a message right now.”

   “Why?!?” Tailgate asks in panic. “Am I in trouble for something?”

   Rung blinks rapidly and pulls back a little. “Tailgate, maybe we should start from the beginning and slow it down. I think…I’m hoping there’s been a miscommunication. Start again with the discussion in the bar and tell me as plainly as you can.”

   Tailgate takes a shaky breath. He doesn’t know what he’s done to make Rung call Ultra Magnus on him but he nervously does what Rung asks in case that will keep him out of even more trouble. “R..right. So I walked into Swerve’s bar and everyone was laughing and I asked what they were laughing about and then Whirl said-“

   “There you are, Little Legs!”

   Tailgate shrieks in surprise and Rung springs back to his feet when Whirl’s exclamation booms from the office doorway.

   “Whirl!” Rung chastises. “You know that if the door is closed, I’m with someone. You’ll have to leave immediately!”

   “Fat chance!” Whirl gestures a claw dismissively in Rung’s direction and bears down on Tailgate. “I have been looking for you only for, like, FOREVER! Come here, you!”

   Tailgate squeals and clambers off the couch, rust sticks flying in panicked abandon, just as Whirl pounces. He doesn't have the faintest idea what's going on but he does know he doesn't want to get caught by a mech that even Tailgate, with his limited life experience, can tell is more than a little unhinged. And as a mini, it's a life rule that when anything bigger than you comes your way, you get the PIT out of there! Whirl's face ploughs into the space Tailgate has just vacated.

   “Whirl, stop! You cannot behave this way!” Rung rushes to intervene but, after a body check from the crazed chopper, winds up sprawled over his desk with his pelvis clanging against the edge and his chest bouncing off the top.

   “Come back here, you little squirmer!” Whirl shouts as he chases Tailgate to the other side of Rung’s desk. “Come on, I only need you for a couple minutes! Why are you running away?”

   “I don’t know!” Tailgate wails, slipping behind Rung’s chair and making a mad dash for the still gaping door. “Because you’re chasing me!?!”

***

   “Tailgate, wait!” Rung starts to reach over the desk for the mini in a desperate move to keep Tailgate safe but is immediately distracted by Whirl crossing his path. He manages to snag a much larger blue arm instead and holds onto it even though the move jerks him hard against the desk and one of his models goes crashing to the ground. “Whirl, stop! Ultra Magnus is already on his way!”

   “Wow! Really? That’s impressive. I just got here! But, hey, the mini’s getting away. Gotta run. Talk later.” The blue mech jerks out of Rung’s grip as he chases Tailgate right out the door.

   Rung opens his emergency comm line and doesn’t even wait for the enforcer to acknowledge him, “Ultra Magnus, I have a priority situation on level ten! It’s Whirl. He and Tail-”

   “Whirl?” The Duly Appointed Enforcer’s voice snaps back. “You have him?"

   "No, he and Tailgate have just fled my office."

   "Don’t lose visual. I’m nearly there.”

    Rung hisses when he tries to stand straight, his pelvis having seriously taken a beating on that desk, and limps into the hall in pursuit. The reality that he has taken more damage in just weeks aboard this ship than he had in the whole first half of the war does not escape Rung. But somewhere ahead, shouting barely coherent protests in the distance, is a very frightened Tailgate and Rung will be damned if he lets one more mech take advantage of the mini’s naivete tonight.

  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter dedicated to Harutemu who knew it was coming. XD

   Tailgate slides around a corner with the squeal of metal pedes scraping the polished floor and barely manages to catch himself against the wall before bouncing off and tearing down the next straight avenue of escape. All this panicking is going to short out Tailgate’s optics! Blue light assaults the hallway in spastic flashes as if Tailgate is some emergency responder with his lights on. It does give him a little heads up to each upcoming turn in the dark halls as he continues to flee Rung’s office.

   The minibot has no idea what he’s done to deserve this mad scramble but he knows he’s not about to stop when he can still hear Whirl swearing up a storm just a few turns behind him. Whirl has longer legs but he’s even worse than a hyperventilating Tailgate when it comes to turning corners at high speed.  A spectacular crash and new slew of oaths echo behind Tailgate when the chopper slams into another darkened corner. As Tailgate debates the amount of time it would take to transform versus the speed his wheels might give him, the blue and white mini skids around the next corner and finds himself in a full-frame collision.

   He doesn’t mean to shriek but what else is a terrified mini going to do when he turns a blind corner and ricochets off someone? And he knows it’s a _some **one**_ and not a _some **thing**_ because the roadblock exclaims too, though it’s far more of an angry huff than a frightened scream, as they both tumble down.

   “Watch where you’re going!” The someone snaps from ground level.

   “Sorry!” Tailgate scrambles onto all fours and turns to face the newcomer. “He’s right behind-“

   Tailgate cuts himself off when he realizes he’s staring into another blue visor framed by a white helm.  The dim running lights in the hall make it tough to see much more than that but it’s the little, red light that finally makes it click. “Rewind?”

   That explains how they both wound up on the floor instead of just Tailgate. He’ll apologize again later but for right now… "Rewind, help me! I’m being chased!”

   Right on cue, Whirl’s voice wraps around the corner in some kind of twisted summoning call. “Here, Little, Little, Little Legs!”

   Tailgate squeezes Rewind’s shoulders fearfully. There’s no way he’ll outrun Whirl now! Rewind surprises Tailgate by quite suddenly shoving against him so hard that he tumbles across the width of the hall and clangs against the opposite wall.

   “Ow!” Tailgate hisses as his back collides with the solid metal. “What’s your problem?”

   “Shut up!” Rewind snaps in a heated whisper before unsteadily scrambling to his feet.

   Tailgate puffs up his little chest to protest. He said he was sorry!

   “Are you kidding me!?!” Rewind abruptly shouts to the ceiling. He sounds absolutely outraged but maybe a little louder than seems right. “The nerve of that guy!”

   Whirl skitters around the corner and Tailgate can’t stop the little ‘eep’ that escapes him before he huddles into himself and offlines his optics. Maybe whatever the crazed, blue mech plans won’t be as scary if Tailgate doesn’t see it coming.

   “Hey, Stick!” Whirl growls and Tailgate can only assume he’s talking to Rewind. “Did you see another tiny guy run by here?”

   “If by ‘run by’ you mean ‘plowed right into me and kept going’, then yeah.” Rewind’s sass bounces off the walls. “The jerk went that way.”

   “Heh, thanks, Stick.”

   Tailgate curls into the tightest ball he can manage as Whirl jogs right to his location…and then keeps on going right past. As Whirl’s steps grow more distant, Tailgate begins to ease and his optics flicker back on thoroughly confused.

   “Well, that was pretty fragging close!”

   Tailgate gives a start at Rewind’s voice right next to his audial and springs to his feet but then whines when his head hits something hard. Rewind chuckles and Tailgate squints up from his new squatting position to find a solid hunk of metal overhead. A further look reveals shallow walls on either side of him. Rewind shakes his head, takes Tailgate’s hands, and pulls him back into the center of the hall. Once he’s got his feet under him again, Tailgate can finally get the full picture.

   “A console,” Tailgate murmurs in surprise. There’s one in the hall of every deck; a little desk and monitor in one tucked against the wall that displays a map of the ship and grants access to manifests and system stats if you have a code. And, apparently, it’s the perfect size for minibots to hide beneath.

   “Oh, thank you so much!” Tailgate loops his arms over Rewind’s neck and comes in for a full press of their frames.

   Rewind pats the other mini on the back though he resorts to teasing when the embrace seems to have no end in sight. “Easy now. I’m kinda taken, you know.”

   “Oh! Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

   “Yeah, no kidding.” Rewind disentangles himself from a practically melting Tailgate and fiddles with his camera as if checking for any possible damage. “Shouldn’t you be recharging? We all assumed Cyclonus carted you back to your habsuite. And what’s the deal with Whirl? Thought your roommie knocked him out cold. Is he bothering you again?”

   “I don’t know. Kinda. It’s a really long and confusing story. Could we maybe not talk about it out here?” Tailgate nervously peers down the darkened hall he’s pretty sure Whirl took.

  “Reading you loud and clear.” Rewind pats Tailgate companionably on the back and steers him down a different corridor. “My room’s just at the end of this deck so let’s get the lead out before Nut Job comes back. But as soon as we get there, you’re telling me everything. Ok?”

*

   “Ho-ly scap!” Rewind mutters sometime later, both hands clamped over his visor like it’s too painful to even look at Tailgate after hearing the mini’s recounting of his strange night. His long shoulder plating begins to bounce as stifled giggles become full-on laughter. “Oh, buddy. I have got to teach you about innuendo!”

   Tailgate leans forward anxiously. They’re both parked on Rewind’s recharge slab so that Rewind could get a clear, steady recording of the whole tale. “Did I say something wrong?”

   “Actually,” Chromedome mutters while lounging on his own bed an arm’s reach away, “I think you said just about everything wrong.”

   Tailgate frowns and wishes Chromedome wasn’t here so there’d at least be one less mech laughing at him but it’s half the mnemosurgeon’s room and he was already there, partway to recharge, when Tailgate and Rewind showed up.

   “What we have here,” Rewind quips gleefully, “is a beautiful disaster, Tailgate.”

   “It’s not funny!” Tailgate’s visor flashes in another near panic attack. “Whirl was practically hunting me and I think I’m in trouble with Ultra Magnus too! What am I supposed to do now?”

   “Wow, just… I don’t even know where you should start.” The fact that Chromedome sounds as amused as Rewind is seriously starting to make Tailgate regret coming here. “But I don’t think you’re in trouble. It sounds like you accidentally gave Rung a seriously wrong impression and he’s just worried about you.”

   “And Whirl?” Tailgate asks even more mystified.

   Rewind adjusts uneasily. “Yeah…considering the whole ‘dibs’ thing in the bar…you should probably be safe and continue avoiding him.”

    “Ugh! The bar!” Tailgate slumps with his hands in his lap. After a moment, he finds the courage to ask. “When everyone was at Swerves…just tell me; was it really obvious?”

   “That you had absolutely no idea what you were saying?” Rewind starts.

   “Yeah. Definitely,” Chromedome finishes.

   “Ooooh! This whole day is a disaster!” Tailgate mumbles pathetically as he flops backward on Rewind’s berth. “Kinda makes me wish the ground would open up and swallow me again.”

   “Hey!” Rewind pokes the bottom of Tailgate’s pede. “You can’t die dramatically here; this is where I sleep.”

   “Not always,” the mnemosurgeon counters slyly.

   Tailgate barely even hears Chromedome’s comment or Rewind’s scathing retort and the following squabble just becomes background noise for Tailgate’s bad mood. He curls into a little blue and white ball as he pouts. Life was much simpler before Whirl ever blurted out that thing about spiking and getting spiked! Every bot there knew Tailgate was oblivious. Now Tailgate’s made an even bigger fool of himself by running all over the ship asking stupid questions and making silly hand gestures. The background banter peaks in a heated snap before mellowing back down.

   “Ok, Tailgate,” Chromedome’s voice rings out nice and confident after a moment. “Here’s the plan.”

   Tailgate’s visor floods with blue light again and he sits up, frame perking with hope.

   “First, you are going back to your habsuite and getting a good night’s recharge. You're obviously overstressed and possibly still overcharged.” Chromedome continues sternly even as Tailgate slumps again. “In the morning, you book an appointment with Rung to explain yourself, you find Ultra Magnus and let him know you’d like Whirl kept away from you, and I think you may need to talk things over with Swerve too. He probably thinks you promised him something you didn’t mean to.”

   The blue and white mini nods dejectedly. It’s a better plan than he had. Namely the one where he let the ground swallow him up again so he could pretend this whole thing never happened.

   “But before you leave,” Rewind throws up a halting hand, “I am going to teach you about interfacing.”

   “Really?” Tailgate squirms, doubtful but still eager. “You’re serious?”

   “Yeah.” Rewind shrugs. “Why would I let you walk around clueless when I’ve got years worth of footage right here?”

   Rewind taps the camera on the side of his head before shuffling around to face the wall with the viewport, the one they use for movie nights.  “Just remember that I’m showing you this for educational purposes only. Don’t go blabbing to everybody that I showed you either. I don’t want mechs beating down my door for a copy of my archives, okay?”

   “Got it.” Tailgate nods enthusiastically and flips off the suite’s lights and activates the viewport’s shutters when Rewind gestures to the spot by the door. “Is this like a how to video?”

   “I guess you could call it that,” Chromedome makes a soft choking noise behind his mask as he rises and settles in behind Rewind so that his form no longer blocks the line of sight/projection.  He gently drags Rewind back into the space between his open legs and there’s a little moment of shuffling as the couple gets comfy.

   Rewind barely holds back a sly snicker. “You might consider it more like ‘inspirational material.’ Remember, this stays between us.”

   Tailgate makes an annoyed sound as he settles onto the very edge of Rewind’s recharge slab. “I get it, no telling!”

   “You’re sure this isn’t weird?” Chromedome whispers to Rewind. “Maybe I should leave.”

   “How does you leaving make this any less weird?” Rewind counters softly but they’re too close for Tailgate _not_ to hear them whispering back and forth. “Besides, it’s not like I’m showing him _footage of_ _us!_ ”

   Tailgate only barely resists the urge to ask before Rewind’s projection flickers against the shuttered wall and the recording begins with two very sleek-looking mechs in a library.

***

   Half an hour after Rewind hits play, Tailgate finds himself shuffling down the darkened halls of the Lost Light in an absolute daze. Interfacing is…certainly a lot messier than he would have thought and louder…and…and even with a variety of visuals that finally showed him _how_ it works, Tailgate still isn’t sure how smashing body parts together…all different kinds of body parts in all kinds of different positions… is supposed to feel anything like pleasure. Those mechs in Rewind’s archives might have enjoyed it, they said ‘yes’ an awful lot, but there was also a lot of panting and growling and screaming. Rewind had attributed most of the body contorting and persistent noise as being ‘porn clichés.’ But still…

   No wonder no one had wanted to tell him. This new interface is weird!

   Rewind sighs next to Tailgate as Chromedome brushes a hand along the back of the archivist’s helm. The two have graciously offered to walk Tailgate back to his suite, and that’s really nice, but they’re starting to grate against Tailgate’s nerves. The two bots have been touching the whole time! It’s just little touches, little brushes and pinches here and there that Tailgate thought he was imagining while Rewind’s recordings played in the habsuite. But now that Tailgate’s not trying to focus on a projection of what two mechs are doing to each other under poor lighting and with weird music in the background, he can’t help but notice Chromedome and Rewind occasionally…groping at each other.

   Tailgate might not be the most likely bot to read this kind of thing correctly, but it looks an awful lot like Rewind and Chromedome are well on their way to making their own scene. Tailgate blushes. It’s not because he’s embarrassed by the two getting grabby. Rewind had kept a thorough running commentary and told him at some point during the recordings that it was a pretty common thing for conjux endurae to interface. The point is to make both bots feel good according to Chromedome.  And to express mutual love and trust. It makes Tailgate feel kind of warm in his spark to see the pair like this. He should have come to Rewind and Chromedome the moment he realized a spike and a valve are meant to be used together. These two do everything together!

   No, what makes Tailgate’s face flush is the sudden realization that interfacing isn’t private because it’s some shameful, horrible ordeal that mechs are embarrassed to talk about. It’s private because it’s an expression of very spark-felt feelings. Like the feelings Rewind has for Chromdome and vice versa. That also explains a lot about Cyclonus not wanting to discuss it. Interface is something you do with a bot you love, not something you discuss with a roommate you can barely call a friend.

   “This is me,” Tailgate pipes up with a small rush of relief once they reach habsuite fourteen. “Thanks, for all the help.”

   “No problem. Just remember your plan and take this.” Rewind offers Tailgate a data slug. “In case you need some more visual aids.”

   Tailgate hesitates for just a moment. He doesn’t know if he can handle too much more weirdness tonight but he accepts the little device in case he might come up with some more mysteries later. “Thanks.”

   He wishes the couple a good recharge, even though he’d bet a week’s worth of engex those two won’t be recharging just yet, and slips into his room. He refrains from turning on the lights in case Cyclonus has already begun recharging but after peering into the darkness for a moment, he realizes his roommate is still gone. Feeling oddly dejected by the discovery, Tailgate crawls onto his own slab, settles on his front and props his chin on the back of one hand. He wishes he could settle in and recharge like Chomedome suggested but… His optics flicker to the space Cyclonus usually occupies as he fiddles with the data slug still in his hand. It might be uncomfortable to try and watch its contents with Cyclonus in the room. Maybe he should do it now, while he knows Cyclonus won’t have to see it. It will spare them both the embarrassment of something meant to be so intimate.

   Processor cemented on the plan, Tailgate rolls off his slab and flicks on the suite’s lights. The viewing screen by the door has a port that fits Rewind’s slug so Tailgate pops it in and grabs the mobile control before hopping back onto the edge of his berth. He’ll just skim through and see what’s on the slug then stash it away before Cyclonus comes back.

   Tailgate fumbles a moment with the mobile control since it’s a little too big to hold in one palm but eventually finds the play button.  The screen flickers on immediately with what looks like an interior shot of some super-swanky looking berthroom. Tailgate fast-forwards through the establishing shots, just like Rewind had back in his suite, and even continues after two mechs show up and begin feeling each other up and down. The minibot rocks side to side as he resettles and skips ahead by entire scenes. It looks just like everything else Rewind has already shown him so he continues to skip until he hits a different recording entirely.

   He hits play and finds he’s probably somewhere in the middle of the next clip because the mechs are already rubbing against each other on the floor of what looks suspiciously like a public transit system. Tailgate huffs, annoyed by the repetitive nature of Rewind’s clips (or maybe it’s interface in general that only seems to differ by body position and location), and prepares to skip again when he notices something new. One of those mechs has a very obvious set of wings. That probably shouldn’t be surprising. It seems like any two mechs, no matter their build or occupation, can interface as long as they both have arrays. This is just the first flyer he’s seen. Tailgate’s optics drift back over to his roommate's empty slab and he briefly wonders if mechs with airborne alts are somehow different. He lets this one play out a little though nothing seems glaringly different from any of the previous clips, aside from a lot of wing touching, so he eventually skips to the next clip.

   Tailgate is beginning to think there’s not much point in this data slug. He fast-forwards through scene after scene, only casually taking note on which positions he sees most often. Just when he’s ready to hop up and eject the data slug, a new scene flickers by in double time that has Tailgate fumbling to find the play button. This time there’s only one mech on screen, a green minibot half slumped in a chair with his open legs facing the camera. The mini’s fingers run all over and Tailgate can’t help but lean a little closer to the screen. This is the clearest image he’s seen of an interface array, the equipment squarely in frame with only the occasional frantic digits obscuring the view.

   The mini on screen whimpers and Tailgate feels vaguely annoyed because he’s sure this is where the second mech will show and the two will start clanging away. Except there is no second mech. Even when Tailgate fast-forwards out of curiosity, the mini remains the only mech on screen. When Tailgate hits play again, the green mini's fingers have left his valve but there’s something else in it now, something the mini pushes in and pulls out while his voice hitches higher and higher.

   What’s going on? Where’s the other mech? There should be two. There’s always been two. The minibot on screen seems like he’s enjoying whatever he’s doing to himself but who is the mini sharing this experience with? Is it…is it possible to feel good with just your own array?

   Tailgate’s free hand drifts to the side hatch that hides his old interface cables. It feels like the connectors and ports beneath are…buzzing. They’ve never felt like that and he wonders if he might be malfunctioning somehow. Maybe something to do with the stress of the evening... After a second of nervous debate, Tailgate pops the clasps and sends an exploratory finger to prod over static-laced internals. As soon as his digit connects, he feels a spark of something unknown zing through his systems. At the same time; Tailgate sucks in a startled vent, the green mini onscreen explodes in an almost pained whine, and Tailgate’s habsuite door _whooshes_ open to reveal Whirl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close to the end! The next chapter is a little complicated (you'll see why when you read it) so please bear with me if it takes a week or two to get it up. ;)  
> And in case you're wondering, all the records from Rewind's archives are straight up porn and not any personal accounts the mini may have stored. Also, does anyone else ever picture Rewind as a vaguely Italian stereotype? Just me? ...Ok. Yeah, I'll just be over here typing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!  
> This. Is. So. Long. Please forgive the wait. I considered breaking it into smaller chapters and posting it as a supplemental piece to the main fic but this way it acts as a recap before the final train wreck. ;)  
> 4/8/16  
> experimental edit- instead of character perspectives, going to try setting each scene by location and see if that minimizes confusion

**In the Halls of the _Lost Light_...**

   As he makes his way to Swerve’s possibly unsanctioned drinking den, Cyclonus scowls at any mech that dares make optic contact. It’s not an act of malice per se. Cyclonus himself considers every downward twitch of his faceplates and slight rev of his engine to be an almost friendly warning to stay well away and, for the love of Primus, not to approach him with anything resembling an Autobot’s definition of a ‘friendly conversation.’ They only want to know what an ex-Decepticon is doing on _their_ ship anyway. Forget the fact that he was never a Decepticon.

   The possibility for such exchanges, combined with the day’s menial labor and Ultra Magnus’ incessant reminders to be both ‘tolerable’ and ‘of use while aboard’ have already brought the warrior to the edge of his carefully cultivated patience. He simply wishes to refuel and return to his habsuite. He is not in the mood for any…shenanigans.

   The doors to Swerve’s ‘bar’ split to admit him and Cyclonus immediately zeroes in on the racket of groans and curses erupting from the bar. The insane helicopter, Whirl, shouts his claim over something and several of the assembled mechs flinch. Cyclonus has no interest in whatever idle chatter the collection of mechs is engaged in, or this particular collection of mechs themselves. He still intends to extinquish Whirl for the outrageous encounter on Cybertron so getting chummy with the light blue mech is a most obvious waste of time. The hostile mnemosurgeon and his frail conjux are there as well as the blue amnesiac and still more mechs Cyclonus has never met and doesn’t particularly intend to…ever. Tailgate is there in the midst of the raucous. While that’s certainly not a surprise- the mini has proven almost annoyingly sociable- it’s also not an incentive strong enough to overpower Cyclonus’ dislike for the noisy group at the bar and allow him to actually join them.

   But Swerve seems quite engaged with the mechs surrounding the bar and if Cyclonus is going to be served at all tonight, he will undoubtedly have to retrieve his engex from the bar host himself. Cyclonus finally huffs and clears the entranceway on a straight course for his engex with plans to grab his order and retreat to the most isolated corner of the place. But just as he judges himself close enough to raise a hand and hail the barkeep, Whirl stumbles the length of the bar to drape himself sloppily over Tailgate and Cyclonus pauses- his disgust for the obviously drunken fool strong enough to both stop his stride and cement the scowl on his face.

   “Cut it out, Whirl,” mutters that mech who can never decide on his own designation. The gathering seems to have grown incredibly uncomfortable with EM fields flicking out in various states of unease and distaste. Only now does Cyclonus attempt to hear the conversation.

   “How about getting spiked?” Whirl cackles with his frame slumped over Tailgate’s. “You said you like that too right? What’s the best part of that? The fulfillment?”

   The minibot squirms underneath Whirl’s weight and looks positively anxious as he fiddles with the drink in his hands. Cyclonus’ engine revs in agitation. Surely the other mechs have picked up on Tailgate’s unease but no one makes a move to intervene.

   “But most importantly,” Whirl pokes a claw teasingly into Tailgate’s side, “which would you prefer tonight?”

   The feeling that sweeps through Cyclonus’ spark is hard to qualify. It’s not quite rage so much as it is a very steady disdain for the whole situation and for what Cyclonus knows he’s about to do. His claws fly over Whirl’s helm and curl around the upper lip of the former Wrecker’s single optical frame. A solid jerk and Whirl’s frame follows his head backward. The crunch as Whirl hits the floor is remarkably satisfying. Tailgate squeaks and shouts Cyclonus’ name. The warrior can’t tie an emotion to the exclamation because his frame has already taken over his processor. He lifts the minibot effortlessly from his stool and tucks Tailgate under the safety of his arm before removing the both of them from the room entirely.

   Tailgate is naïve. And not just in the way of an average Autobot. Tailgate is well and truly ignorant of many things, a fact he covers quite incredibly in most cases, but Cyclonus can see right through the minibot’s Autopedia entry and the small physical ticks that precede every lie. Cyclonus ignores Tailgate’s squirming protests to put him down and tightens his grip instead. It’s very possible that Tailgate has no idea what Cyclonus has just interrupted.

   The ship’s CMO passes and Cyclonus shoots him a glare that’s a little more intense than he means for it to be. It’s difficult to think with his spark whirling so insistently. It…it may almost seem like he’s protecting Tailgate but he isn’t. He barely knows the minibot. Cyclonus just…doesn’t want to see an innocent Cybertronian, what may very well be the _last_ innocent Cybertronian, duped into anything. Especially not by that maniac, Whirl.

   Cyclonus enters their habsuite on autopilot and deposits Tailgate on his recharge slab before locking the door. A modicrum of privacy is in order for the discussion they’re about to have. He turns back to judge Tailgate’s state, to see if he’s distressed or angry, but the minibot just looks incredibly confused.

   “What?” Tailgate squeaks behind his white mask.

   There needs to be some kind of baseline for this conversation. Cyclonus is having a miserable time even contemplating that! But the longer he looms over Tailgate, the more uncomfortable the minibot grows so Cyclonus sinks to his knees. There’s no sense in putting this off. Best to start with the basics. “Do you know what it means to interface?”

   “Yeah,” Tailgate states confidently but then amends when Cyclonus does not waver in his gaze, “you mean like data exchanges between mechs… right? With the cables and everything?”

   Tailgate pops his side panel and holds the cable up to illustrate his knowledge. Cyclonus steels against his surprise and manages to keep his face passive. He silently and gently gestures for Tailgate to put his cable and ports away.

   “Have you ever engaged in that kind of an interface?”

   “A data exchange…the other...bomb disposal units, we shared data sometimes.”

   Cyclonus feels some of the finer mechanisms behind his face lock up. That was the basest use for the equipment, true enough, but Cyclonus has a sinking feeling that’s as far as Tailgate’s knowledge extends. Particularly since most mechs who engage in cable-based interface don’t tend to bare their equipment to anyone but lovers and medical professionals. He finally shakes his head slowly. “Not for information purposes. Did you ever do it for pleasure?”

   “For…pl…pleasure” Tailgate stumbles over the word and seems to puzzle it over before he practically explodes in a mini revelation. “Wait! Bots do that to feel good? How?”

   This time, Cyclonus cannot marshal his shock and finds himself standing when he suddenly feels he is an inappropriate physical distance from a mech who has just admitted he knows nothing about interfacing for pleasure. And that psychopathic former Wrecker had…Cyclonus’ engine rumbles in an unbidden expression of disgust and he glares at the habsuite door as he thinks about the other mech. He now regrets stopping with Whirl unconscious on the floor of Swerve’s place instead of finishing the mech properly.

   “Is that what spiking is? Another word for interfacing?” Tailgate’s excitement makes his words come forth in a frantic jumble. “So they were talking about what makes them feel good and Whirl…Whoah! Was Whirl trying to give me pleasure?”

   “Don’t ever say that again!” Cyclonus snarls as the thought turns his tanks. Primus knows what kind of horrid preferences Whirl might have during interface.

   “I’m so confused! Why did nobody ever tell me you could do that and feel good? Can any bot do it? Whirl acted like size was important. Has it got something to do with cable size?”

   “Stop!” Cyclonus halts the stream of gibbering and resumes his prior position kneeling in front of Tailgate, though be it with a bit more distance between them. Tailgate clearly has no idea what was going on in that bar. He’s not even thinking in terms of the same equipment and doesn’t even know it. Cyclonus suppresses a sigh. “They weren’t discussing that kind of interfacing.”

   “There’s more than one kind?” Tailgate whines, body pitching forward in exasperation.

   “Don’t interrupt again until I’ve finished explaining,” Cyclonus snaps- irritated more by the nature of the conversation than the actual interruption- and Tailgate sits on his tiny hands in some kind of compliance. Cyclonus frowns. How is he supposed to explain? He is a soldier… _was_ a soldier…it is difficult to decide what he is now but Tailgate is so lost that it somehow seems Cyclonus’ duty to at least try. “Cable and port based interface faded out millions of years ago. Only older mechs still perform the original interface.”

   “Mechs like Ratchet?”

   Tailgate clamps his little hands over his faceplate and Cyclonus shoots him a stern look before he continues.

   “Possibly,” Cyclonus admits though he has no intention of dwelling on it himself or elaborating that particular point even for Tailgate’s sake. “Cables and ports were eventually eclipsed by a more tactile form of interface that requires another set of equipment called an interface array. The array was so well received that many mechs were willingly retrofitted with them and most mechs born after onlined with arrays as standard features. ”

   Tailgate squirms and Cyclonus doesn’t even bother suppressing the squirming bot. Maybe Tailgate’s questions will guide this conversation to a more metaphorically comfortable place. “Go ahead.”

   “Do I have it? The equipment?”

   Cyclonus fights a reflexive swallow. This is not more comfortable. “I do not know. It’s unlikely unless the medics saw fit to update you when you first boarded the ship. You’ll have to ask Ratchet if you want that information.”

   “Oh…” Tailgate tilts his hem one way then the other, “Do you have it?”

   This conversation has gone too far, become too personal. It isn’t proper to be discussing such things, especially with a mech as…innocent as Tailgate. The little mech’s interfacing habits, or lack of, are in no way Cyclonus’ business; the same way Cyclonus’ habits are not open to Tailgate’s scrutiny. The two mechs who share the suite across the hall have already made it clear they don’t care much for Cyclonus even rooming with the minibot. No doubt the neighbors, as well as a generous portion of the crew, perceive Cyclonus to be an unsavory influence on his smaller roommate. To even possibly suggest they hold the familiarity Tailgate is skirting could take Cyclonus’ stay aboard this ship from simply cold to outright dangerous. Cyclonus cannot justify continuing this conversation. But what he can do, is take care of the mech that started this.

   “Wait!” Tailgate’s voice tugs at Cyclonus from across the room and the jet hardly remembers crossing to the door. “Where are you going?”

   “To kill Whirl,” Cyclonus mutters with conviction as he marches out of Tailgate’s unsettling presence and back toward Whirl’s last known location.

 

**Swerve's...**

The _Lost Light_ isn’t a ship. The _Lost Light_ is the venue for the biggest pit-spawned bunch of clowns Ratchet has seen in the same place since the Senate was in session. And Whirl, well, he’s something of a star attraction; something akin to a clown who sets himself ablaze while riding a lion that is being shot out of a cannon. In fact, the only time Whirl seems docile is when he’s unconscious. Which is why Ratchet takes a moment to enjoy the quiet as he stares at Whirl’s frame sprawled out on the floor of the large room Swerve seems determined to turn into a bar.

   “Don’t you have, I don’t know, an _obligation_ to help him?” Swerve mumbles curiously from his place squatting near Whirl. “Like, some kind of freaky medic coding you can’t ignore?”

   “That’s ridiculous,” Ratchet rumbles offhandedly. “Sure, I’ve got a natural predisposition toward healing others…”

   “…but?”

   “But I’m pretty good at ignoring it when it suits me.”

   “Oh, come on!” Swerve’s arms flail as he cries to the heavens. “Everyone bailed and left Crazy ‘Copter as my problem. I’m not exactly built to be hauling mechs out of here.”

   “You don’t have a plan to get the drunks out after hours? That seems like an oversight.”

   “I’m not even officially open! There are still some kinks, ok?”

   “Call Ultra Magnus.”

   “There’s an idea!” Swerve oozes with a forced enthusiasm that grates against Ratchet’s nerves in its falseness as much as its thinly veiled panic. “OR, because Ultra Magnus doesn’t exactly know about this place yet and I’m not quite ready to let him in on the big secret, you could be my number one friend and haul ol’ Nut-Job back to the medibay!”

   The medic crosses his arms and stares the mini down. He came to pick up a drink, not another patient. “Are you planning to open this bar illegally?”

   Swerve counters by ignoring the question entirely. “Do it for a week’s worth of free engex?”

   “You already owe me half your rations,” Ratchet reminds the metallurgist: the price for letting Swerve drop a particularly huge revelation on Tailgate some weeks ago. He doesn’t care about the fuel. He only brings it up to watch Swerve fluster. But the red and white mini barely starts a stuttering oath when a groan from the floor steals Ratchet and Swerve’s attention. Ratchet grunts. He really thought he’d have more time to enjoy the quiet. “Welcome back, Whirl. Do you know where you are?”

   “…Little Legs?”

   “Uh…” Ratchet is still trying to decrypt Whirl’s strange message when the mech’s head crashes back to the ground and he slips into another soft reboot.

   Swerve and Ratchet lock optics over Whirl’s body for a few seconds before Swerve breaks into a wide grin. “Oh, be honest. It is just _eating away_ at you, isn’t it?”

   Ratchet’s arms remain crossed and his face stony for a very tense moment before he drops everything and kneels to scoop an arm behind Whirl. “Fine, I’m taking him! But I still expect those drinks.”

   “No prob. I’ll start up a tab under ‘Ratchet’s predisposition.”

   “Come on, Whirl.” Ratchet wrestles them both to their feet and begins the slow shuffle toward the exit. “It’s back to the medibay for both of us.”

 

**Just Outside Habsuite 14...**

Nearly sprinting down the halls, Cyclonus prays Tailgate will wait quietly in their quarters. At least until Cyclonus can find some explanation that doesn’t demolish the formal boundaries of their acquaintance or until he removes the instigator of this mess. Whirl…Cyclonus’ systems heat as they quietly cycle higher. He made the blue mech a promise that he would end him when Whirl least suspected it. That wasn’t just an idle threat to gain the helicopter’s respect or foster distance between them. Cyclonus fully meant it. Whirl is borderline feral, a wild thing that someone probably should have put out of its misery a long time ago. Not to forget the fiasco in that hidden room with Sweep frames pinned to the walls and the following nonsensical battle that left Cyclonus battered and clinging to the hull of a damn starship.

   And now these deplorable advances on a mech oblivious to the nature of his sordid inquiries and physical touches!

   Cyclonus can barely wait for the double doors to open before he bursts into Swerve’s and casts around for Whirl. The place seems to have emptied of all patrons but he does spy a red and white minibot collecting discarded engex glasses.

   “Where is Whirl?”

   Swerve jumps even though he was staring right at Cyclonus when the warrior spoke.

   “Uh, Whirl? He just left. Ratchet’s taking him to the medibay. Hey, about that thing wi-“

   Cyclonus is out the door and sprinting back toward the medibay before Swerve can even finish.

 

**Halls near the Medibay...**

   Distantly, he knows his legs are moving and that they’re headed in some direction but Whirl can’t think for the life of him where they’re going or why. The casing around his brain module is pounding which is weird because he remembers getting a little sloshed but he’d know if he got totally hammered and he never gets totally hammered around other mechs. So why the frag does everything hurt so bad?

   There’s something warm pressed next to him and wrapped around his back and he puts his bet on that warm thing being alive.

   “Hey,” Whirl mumbles and the vibrations bring another dull wave of pain, “I get hit by something?”

   The warm thing under him huffs. “Yeah, the floor.”

   “Ah.”

   “How do you feel? I’m beginning to suspect you’ve experienced some moderate concussive trauma.”

   So the warm thing is definitely a medic. One: only a medic would use a phrase like ‘moderate concussive trauma.’ Two: no normal mech ever cares if Whirl is ok. He’s pretty sure even the medics fake it.

   Something seems wrong here. Whirl doesn’t remember falling off a cliff or getting hit by a ship: the usual things that cause him ‘concussive trauma.’ He manages to finally get his optic booted back to full strength but his next question is derailed by a very rude shout.

   “Whirl!”

The medic manages to half turn back to their direction of origin while still supporting, a very likely concussed, Whirl. Cyclonus stands in the hall behind them, frame tense.

   “Step away from him, medic,” Cyclonus growls.

   Ratchet tries not to bristle. There are more important things to consider than the lack of his name. Like the obviously combative stance Cyclonus has sunk into.

   “Let’s simmer down for a minute.” Ratchet falls easily into dramatic-situation-diffusion mode. Picking up Whirl is going to turn into an extra hassle if Cyclonus is here to finish a fight. An incredibly brief and one-sided yet thrilling 'first bar fight', according to Swerve’s retelling. “I know you two had a little thing back at Swerve’s but Whirl’s been hurt pretty badly. He doesn’t mean you any harm right now.”

   “I am not concerned for myself,” Cyclonus snarls. “Leave him and go about your evening. He and I have several matters to discuss.”

   “Yeeeah,” Ratchet drags it out in obvious disbelief. “Your body language is doing a poor job of convincing me there are actual words in this ‘discussion’ you’re planning.”

   Even though Cyclonus straightens and eases a fraction (an obvious attempt at reassuring Ratchet that a fight is not about to explode), Ratchet keeps Ultra Magnus’ comm number at the ready. Just because the jet seems capable of reasoning doesn’t mean Ratchet trusts things not to blow up again.

   “So you wanna talk, do ya?”

   Ratchet is mildly surprised by the threatening tone next to his helm. Though, really, nothing Whirl says or does should surprise anyone by this point. “Whirl, I strongly suggest you keep quiet.”

    “And I strongly suggest you stuff it up your tailpipe,” the blue mech counters and shoves his way out of Ratchet’s almost suffocatingly supportive hold before pointing an accusing claw at Cyclonus. “I bet fifty credits and Ratchet’s hands that you’re what ambushed me!”

   “You can’t bet things that don’t belong to you,” an old voice snaps irritably. Whirl ignores it.

   Cyclonus hunkers down just a little lower and flexes silver claws. “I assure you it was well-deserved.”

   “Well! If _you_ say so, then I must be guilty as charged!” Whirl whoops as he charges forward and slams right into Cyclonus, nearly knocking them both to the floor. The medic protests in the background but Whirl’s a little too busy to listen seeing as how he’s currently trying to shove his claw through Cyclonus’ chest while simultaneously keeping his own helm on his shoulders. Cyclonus gets in a headbutt that rattles Whirl’s already fragile processor. It only makes the chopper angrier. And damn if that blooming rage doesn’t take away the ache! Whirl decides to see if they can take this grappling session to the next level for some serious pain management. “Every mech on this ship knows I’m damaged goods but what the frag is your problem tonight?”

   “ _You_ are my problem,” Cyclonus hisses, probably because Whirl’s claw clamping down on one of his wrists is pretty painful. “You’ve overstepped the bounds of decency.”

   “Uh, reality check, indecency is my home address.” A leg sweep and the flat side of a claw to the face has Cyclonus staggering back even if it doesn’t dump him on his aft like Whirl wanted.

   Cyclonus recovers, puts a little distance between them, and coils for another attack. “I’m speaking of your actions toward Tailgate.”

   “Whoah, time out!” Whirl calls out in genuine confusion, his claws coming together above his helm to form the signal. “Is that what this is about? I thought you were bringing back that whole ‘I’ll kill you and you’ll never see it coming’ thing.”

   “I am!” Cyclonus launches himself and Whirl only barely misses the horn to the midsection as the purple jet tackles him to the ground with a crunch.

   “I’m really confused about your motives here,” Whirl grunts as he fights the claws trying to wrap around his neck. “The death threat I get. Totally on board for that. But what’s the deal with Tailgate?”

   “Your conduct in Swerve’s was depraved,” Cyclonus growls so close it tickles the inside of Whirl’s optic casing.

   “Wow, ‘depraved’, really?” Those claws are getting awfully close to strangling distance of Whirl’s neck despite the crushing damage Whirl’s doing to Cyclonus’ wrists and forearms. “You telling me I’m not allowed to have any fun?”

   “Not at the expense of an innocent.”

   Whirl’s snort echoes in the strange way it does for all mechs without a proper face. “Then you obviously missed some of the details because the little guy I was trying to pick up is some kind of beast in the berth.”

   Cyclonus only bears down harder in a new wave of snarling fury and that conviction is enough to actually startle Whirl into rethinking. Though those claws have finally found their mark and the constriction is starting to dim the edges of his single optic and make anything resembling thought tricky. “Wait! He is a beast, isn’t he? Running around taking it like a champ and…urk.. spiking huge guys six million years ago…way back before the age of…before the age of interface arrays. Oh frag! ‘Innocent?’ Are we talking clean slate, fresh from the factory, film-sealed kind of innocent? Is this really for real right now or is this more head trauma?”

   “That is enough!” Ratchet’s too close and too loud to ignore this time. He wraps his arms under Cyclonus’ and, in an impressive display of medic strength, wrangles the jet back in a firm upper body lock. When he speaks again, it's practically a grunt into the side of the ancient warrior's helm. “Ultra Magnus is on his way. Do you really want a dead Whirl on your hands?”

   As pressure leaves and his vision comes back, Whirl notes the distinct fight for control on Cyclonus’ face. With Ratchet holding him, the jet is wide open for any attack. Whirl could easily drive a claw through Cyclonus’ spark and settle this battle to the death thing but this newer Tailgate thing is starting to drive him crazy. Is that minibot seriously as innocent as Cyclonus seems to think? Why Cyclonus cares isn’t even on Whirl’s radar. What really bothers him is that he remembers himself drunkenly calling dibs. Whirl would remember if he made good on that claim and he doesn’t recall doing so. He obviously needs to pay the minibot a visit then, doesn’t he?

   Whirl shoves violently against the purple frame atop him and the tangle of Cyclonus and Ratchet rock back, off-balance just enough for Whirl to slip beneath them and clamber to his feet. “You two are in habsuite fourteen, right?”

   At the absolutely dumb look on Cyclonus’ face, Whirl waves his claw dismissively. “Ah, don’t worry; I’ll find him myself.”

   With that, Whirl takes off back the way Cyclonus had arrived.

   "Whirl, you get back here immediately!" The medic demands to no avail.

   “Release me!” Cyclonus practically roars in Ratchet’s arms but the medic refuses to fold.

   “Trust me on this," Ratchet's back twinges each time Cyclonus tries to pull away but the medic really only has Cyclonus' welfare in mind. "It’s in your best interests to let Ultra Magnus deal with Whirl.”

   “You do not understand the damage you may cause!”

   Without warning, Cyclonus throws his helm back and smashes into Ratchet. The medic jerks and swears as pain explodes across his face- briefly tripping his voice box mid-blasphemous sentiment- and he feels Cyclonus slip from his grasp. He gropes after the jet but his optics are clamped tight in agony and Ratchet knows Cyclonus will be long gone by the time he can get himself straightened out. Beating down the pain like the seasoned vet he is, Ratchet manages to focus long enough to shoot a quick message to the ship’s SIC to let him know Whirl is up to something near habsuite fourteen and that Cyclonus will not be far behind.

   "Damn floating circus," Ratchet bites out as he continues to cup his face.

  Ratchet’s optics are finally easing open as he palpates the area of impact (nasal ridge decidedly concaved and a strut under his cheek more than a little tender) and he sends Ultra Magnus an extra advisement for caution. Well, this is turning out to be a great night. Ratchet picks his way grumpily toward the medibay as he compiles the rest of the pertinent information for Ultra Magnus. He’s only just finished his preliminary incident report when he receives a message from First Aid. He reads it once and then twice. “Tailgate? For the love of-”

 

**The Brig...**

   “The both of you should be well acquainted with the regulations against disorderly conduct by now,” Ultra Magnus frowns as he wrestles the medibay’s most recent drunks into two separate holding cells, “But perhaps a refresher will not be out of place. Autobot code section five; subsection thirteen has and always will state that-“

   The two mechs behind energy bars groan in unison before one of them cries out, “Please, not the code!”

   “Perhaps I should start from the beginning then,” The Duly Appointed Enforcer snaps, though well within the reasonable volume guidelines set forth in subsection eighty-seven. How can mechs have no respect for propriety and the code? Before he can really get started, he receives a message from Ratchet. A fight, an assault on a medical officer, and two counts of leaving the scene of an infraction. Perpetrators…Whirl and Cyclonus. It’s going to be a busy evening for the Enforcer. A new message arrives from First Aid. It seems he is to keep his optics scanning for Tailgate as well. A Lawman’s work is never done.

   “I want you both to download the Autobot Code and have it read by the time I return, understood?”

   As Ultra Magnus is leaving the brig en route to habsuite fourteen he hears one of the mechs mutter to the other.

   “Hey, didn't I used to have two arms?”

 

**The Medibay...**

   “What do you mean he just slipped away?” The CMO scoffs, or at least tries before the vibrations travel through his injured face and he hisses in pain instead.

   First Aid huffs and hovers nearby as Ambulon sets about hammering Ratchet’s nasal ridge back into a more reasonable shape. “One minute he was on that slab and we were discussing interface arrays but then Ultra Magnus showed up to take care of those two disorderlies and when I turned back, Tailgate was gone!”

   “Well, get him-“ _*clang*_ “-back here!”

   “I used the medical directory and tried to comm him but his line’s been shut down.” First Aid rapidly taps the mediberth with a single finger in one of his rare nervous tells. “Ratchet, I’m worried. He had no idea what an array even looked like but someone had put it into his head he needed one.”

   “Well,” Ratchet growls at a particularly rough blow that finally sets his nose back into shape, “Ultra Magnus should be on his way to Tailgate’s suite. I’m sure they’ll both turn up here soon. And you did the right thing by putting out the word even if your list might need a little editing.”

   “Hey! Speaking of lists, what’s the deal with keeping me in the dark?”

   The three medics redirect their attention to the medibay doors where Rodimus stands with arms pointedly crossed over his chest and a borderline petulant scowl plastered on his face. Drift waggles his fingers in a sheepish wave from behind the fuming captain. Then the ship’s First and Second notice Ratchet’s state.

   Drift responds with his unique blend of genuine concern and pointedly irritating spiritualism. “Ratchet, I keep telling you that if you don’t cleanse yourself of negative energy, it can draw disaster in the physical realm!”

   Rodimus is a bit more straightforward. “The frag happened to your face?”

   “Oh, the night just keeps getting better,” Ratchet mumbles.

 

**Habitation Suites...**

   After accidentally skidding past habsuite fourteen, Whirl does a little backpedaling. Briefly, he considers pushing the little button for the door chime but knows he’s likely to break it anyway so he raps against the door with his claw instead and waits. Silence. Whirl fidgets and knocks again a bit harder. Nothing. “Oh come on! Where else would you be?”

   “Step away from the door, Whirl.”

   Whirl deflates as he takes in Ultra Magnus’ tense shoulders and chronic frown just down he hall. “Hold up a minute. What are you doing here exactly?”

   “I’d like to ask the same of you.” The big bot’s voice is all serious and stern and it instantly grinds Whirl’s gears.

   Meetings with the ship’s Enforcer only ever go one way for Whirl. Whirl knocks against Tailgate’s door a bit more urgently. “If you’re here to arrest me, I’m not down with that. I haven’t even done anything except wail on Cyclonus and _he_ started it!”

   “Then you won’t mind coming with me peacefully so we can get the whole situation cleared up.”

   “Well, that is just…not accurate at all.”

Peeking stealthily around the far corner of the hall, Cyclonus has a perfect view of Whirl’s sudden attempt to flee and Ultra Magnus’ equally sudden and very efficient take down.

   By the time Whirl is on the floor and Magnus is giving his lecture about obstructing a lawman, Cyclonus is slipping away. He doesn't hold any illusions that his failed attack on Whirl or his, necessary but unfortunate, assault on Ratchet will be brushed away by the ship's Enforcer. Cyclonus will undoubtedly serve his own time in the brig once he’s found so he simply must find Tailgate and be sure the minibot is straightened out before Ultra Magnus finds Cyclonus. At least he knows Whirl is temporarily removed from the situation. But where has Tailgate gone? Tailgate would have answered the door in an instant, even if it was the DJD on the other side. Tailgate must be elsewhere and Swerve’s is the first place the mini might return. Considering this entire mess started at Swerve’s, Cyclonus is interested in retrieving Tailgate as quickly as physically possible so he slips away while Whirl and Ultra Magnus are keeping each other occupied.

   “I’m telling you that I haven’t done anything!” Whirl growls into the floor and challenges the grip Ultra Magnus holds around his claws. “I just need to talk to Little Legs!”

   Ultra Magnus leans a little more of his formidable weight against Whirl’s back and fishes around his subspace for some bonds. “That designation is not registered to any mech aboard. Cease struggling or I’ll have to cite you with an additional charge of resisting arrest.”

   “Why are you arresting me in the first place? I’m the victim here, believe it or not! First, Cyclonus blindsides me in Swerve’s secret engex bar, then he ambushes me on my way to the medibay-“

   Ultra Magnus’ subspace turns up surprisingly empty before he remembers his go-to _and_ back-up pairs of cuffs are clamped around two drunks at the moment.

   “Wait, Swerve has a secret engex bar?” Ultra Magnus frowns at this new information. There was no request to start a bar on the _Lost Light_. He would remember issuing permits for such a potential distraction. Although an unsanctioned drinking den would certainly help explain the rash of drunken mechs to recently plague the ship. Ultra Magnus makes a note to investigate at his earliest opportunity.

   “Really,” Whirl snorts, “that’s the issue you’re taking away from this? Why aren’t you going after Cyclonus?”

   “Don’t think for a moment that I won’t be bringing him in as well. But right now, you are my priority.” Ultra Magnus hauls Whirl upright and prods him in the general direction of the brig. He’ll have to make do without the cuffs by locking one of his massive hands around Whirl’s wrists. “First, I receive a message that you’re battling Cyclonus in the halls and Ratchet’s preliminary report mentions Tailgate may be a factor. Then another message arrives from First Aid warning that Tailgate has disappeared from the medical bay. When I find you, you’re beating down Cyclonus and Tailgate’s habsuite door. I find that all a bit suspicious. If I discover you’ve done anything to actually harm the minibot, you’ll face a lot more than brig time.”

   “Yeah? Exactly what is this horrible thing that you all think I’d do to the little guy? No, don’t even say it! I changed my mind! Want to be surprised when you read the charges in front of a full firing squad.”

   Whirl’s tone is dripping with insubordinance and Ultra Magnus considers adding it to the list of charges he’s mentally writing up. He pushes Whirl a little more firmly as they come upon a cross section in the hall. “Nothing has been officially claimed in regards to Tailgate but that does not distract from the infractions already witnessed.”

   Whirl continues to mumble bitterly. “Everybody wants to stick up for the mini today. Well, I guess I’ll just find the little guy and prove my own innocence.”

   Instead of complying with Ultra Magnus’ insistent steering to the right as they reach the cross section, Whirl swings his legs up onto the wall straight ahead of him and propels himself backward with a mighty kick. The force against Ultra Magnus’ chest is so strong and so sudden that he loses his footing and crashes straight back onto the floor. A rough twist of his claws and arch of his frame and Whirl manages to wrench himself from the Duly Appointed Enforcer’s grasp and land sloppily somewhere behind Ultra Magnus’ helm.

   Whirl doesn’t even take the time to gloat before he’s tearing off down the hall.

   “Stop! You’re resisting arrest!” Ultra Magnus snarls his outrage as he rolls over.

   “No duh!” Whirl’s snide reply travels back to the half-dazed Enforcer.

   Ultra Magnus lurches back onto his feet to give chase. The paperwork for this incident will take hours! The forthcoming lecture…even longer.

 

**Swerve's...**

   Swerve swirls the remains of his first Tailgate Special in its little glass and props his cheek against his fist. Skids still hasn’t responded to his desperate call for advice. The mech’s either recharging or off having fun with some other bot. Skids is good-looking enough that Swerve knows he might be interrupting something with repeated messages so he leaves it at one. Swerve sighs. Getting Tailgate drunk and dropping him off at home was not Swerve’s idea of a good first date. It wasn’t technically a date but still…

   The double doors across the way slide open to once more reveal an after-hours guest. Swerve sighs again, belatedly realizing the importance of actually locking the door. Though he doesn’t just flinch awkwardly when that mono-horned silhouette against the door reveals itself to be a very real mech; this time, the minibot flails wildly and tries to scoop the blue-stained glass off the countertop but fumbles it with a loud _clunk_ before he wrestles it under control and stuffs it behind the bar.

   “Oh, hey!” Swerve scrambles to find the right words as Cyclonus bears down on him with purposeful stride “…umm sorry, but I’m definitely closed for the night.”

   But that doesn’t stop Cyclonus and, as he leans over the bartop, Swerve is very aware of how freaking terrifying the sour jet looks up close. The rumbling voice makes Swerve tense every cable in his frame.“Have you seen Tailgate?”

   Swerve’s optics cycle through a few reboots and he leans ever so slightly away. “Ta…Tailgate? Isn’t he in his habsuite? I mean, it’s just a guess, but I’d logically think he’d be there.”

   “He did not respond to insistent knocking.”

   “Did you…go in and check? Maybe he’s just in a really deep recharge.”

   Cyclonus stands straight and surprise flashes in his optics as if that thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

   “Yeah,” Swerve continues in an effort to get the not-a-‘Con going, “I’d guess he’s safe and sound back in his, uh, your room and just really, _really_ deep in recharge.”

   Cyclonus straightens though the set of his face still seems unconvinced. “If you do see him, tell him to return to our habsuite and not to admit anyone but myself. Understood?”

   Swerve nods emphatically. “Yeah! Yeah, I got it.”

   The moment the doors close behind Cyclonus, Swerve rushes over to lock them and exhales a shaky vent. That whole incident had a little too much ‘imminient death’ written all over it. And Tailgate…Tailgate’s out cold? Worst first date ever! Swerve immediately starts wracking his processor for ways to apologize.

 

**The Medibay...**

   “And another thing,” Rodimus winds up as if he hasn’t been carrying on for the last five minutes, “I’m the slagging CAPTAIN! Don’t you think I should know what’s happening on my own ship?”

   “I never meant to offend you!” First Aid protests. He looks to Ratchet but Ratchet shrugs in a classic ‘what can you do about idiots?’ kind of shrug and leaves First Aid to continue. “It’s just that Tailgate’s dilemma is very personal so the matter should be treated delicately.”

   “Delicate, huh?” Rodimus smirks the particular smirk that usual precedes a victorious statement. “Well, I just want to let you know, that I’ve already spoken to Tailgate about his little problem and I did an excellent job of being helpful _and_ delicate.”

   Drift subtly winces in the background.

   “Wait,” Ratchet brushes aside Ambulon’s hands and the mirror in them. The bruising on his face has left a horrible streak of color across his nose and cheeks in some ridiculous semblance of a blush that’s probably not going to fade for a few days, “you’re telling us you saw Tailgate? Where is he now?”

   “You mean he isn’t here somewhere?” Drift's expression takes a sudden downward turn. “I told him you would get him straightened out, Ratchet. I…well, I assumed he’d head straight here to see you.”

   “And when was that?” Ratchet frowns as that familiar sinking feeling settles in.

   “Ten, fifteen minutes ago.” Drift then nods to First Aid. “Right before I received your message that something was up with Tailgate.”

   Ratchet groans and shoves past Drift on his way to the exit.

   “Ratchet?” First Aid practically pleads (and logically so because the junior medic is correctly noticing Ratchet’s intent to leave First Aid behind in the medibay with Rodimus.) “Where are you going?”

   “Unless Rodimus decides to launch an overblown search party, we’ll just have to wait for Tailgate to turn up. Call me when one of those scenarios happen. Until then, I’m going to get a damn drink.”

 

**Halls of the _Lost Light_ , Lower Decks...**

   Cyclonus sends yet another message to his roommate’s comm. By this point, the lack of response is not only surprising and annoying but beginning to edge toward worrisome. The minibot was not in their hab deeply recharging as Swerve had indicated. But when Cyclonus had returned to actually poke his head into the room and check, he’d noted the door was unlocked. It is as likely a sign as any that Tailgate left of his own will, the mini is horrible at remembering to lock up. But there were no clues left behind to point Cyclonus in the right direction. The minibot could be anywhere aboard. But it’s the thought of who Tailgate might be with that worries Cyclonus more. Tailgate is naturally inquisitive. Given tonight’s theme of discussion and the mini’s general naivete, Cyclonus is more than a little concerned that Tailgate may ask the wrong questions of the wrong mech and land himself in a situation with some dark repercussions.

   Systematically, Cyclonus has been working his way through the ship. The halls on the lower decks are dim enough that he focuses a little extra power to his optics which causes red light to wash over everything he observes. A faint echo catches his attention. He pauses and strains to catch the noise again. There it is! A strange hitch, almost like a hiccup, and the gentle thrum of a small engine bounce down the corridor.

   The warrior stalks the sound down the halls until he can tell he’s right up on it. The near silence is suddenly shattered by the roar of a tiny engine shifting into higher gear.

   “Tailgate?” Cyclonus calls into the dark as he pursues the sound at a brisk jog. As quickly as it started, the noise dies down and Cyclonus picks up the pace lest he lose what he is almost certain must be a minibot barreling down the dark halls of the ship. Cyclonus veers around a corner and is startled by a sudden piercing scream that is immediately joined by the whine of a miniature engine and the squeal of tires. “Tailgate!”

   But if it is truly the mini, then Tailgate is much quicker than Cyclonus would have ever thought to give him credit for. In a matter of seconds, Cyclonus has lost visual in the darkened halls and the echo of an overclocking engine reverberates in a way that makes it nearly impossible to locate the source.

   “Tailgate!” Of course there is no answer to Cyclonus’ frustrated call. Though the flicker of a shadow nearly optic-level catches Cyclonus gaze, he dismisses it as a trick of the poor lighting and continues in what he believes to be Tailgate’s general direction.

   Whirl vents a single, quiet snort of incredible disbelief as he slinks around a corner. Cyclonus saw him. Whirl was almost certain. But the purple jet had barely even paused to consider the possibility that some mech was watching from just feet away before continuing his pursuit of Tailgate.

   Coming to this level had been a blind stroke of luck. Whirl’s intent was simply to get as far away from Ultra Magnus as possible so he could circle back to the upper suites relatively unaccosted and find that elusive minibot. He came for the seclusion but stayed for the screaming. Specifically the screams he imagined might belong to Little Legs himself. Cyclonus shouting the minibot’s name through the halls was also a pretty convincing bit of evidence that Whirl had unwittingly found the right area. Now to grab Tailgate before Cyclonus. If the Not-A-Decepticon gets to the minibot first, Primus knows what kind of damage the jet will do.

   Whirl picks his way through the halls carefully while keeping his single optic open for Ultra Magnus, Cyclonus, and Tailgate all at the same time. What reason would Tailgate even have for being this low on the ship? The bottom levels don’t hold much aside from store rooms and the quantum engines…and hello! Is that the glow of a proper light?

   Rung’s office! And from inside, the sound of Tailgate’s almost frantic chirping.

   Whirl kicks in the door without preamble to maintain the element of surprise. Definitely accomplished when Tailgate and Rung both practically leap out of their frames. Whirl cannot stop his own crow of victory.

   “There you are, Little legs!”

 

**Outside Swerve's...**

   The medic scowls and pounds on the door to Swerve’s bar for what must be the fifth time. He can hear Swerve shuffling around. The minibot just seems intent on ignoring the knocking on his door.

   “I’m closed!” The amateur bartender’s voice finally pops up, scathing but muffled by the sealed door between them.

   “Swerve it’s me. I need a drink.”

   “Who’s ‘me?”

   “It’s Ratchet,” the medic grumbles sourly.

   “Oh, heeey!” Swerve sounds briefly excited before his tone drops right back a duller plane. “Sorry, still closed.”

   “Some bar!” Ratchet exhales a vent that carries the most volatile of his emotions as he puts some pain-numbing pressure on his bruised cheek struts. There’s no way he’s going to be able to recharge with this nagging injury. Not without some serious strength engex; the kind of stuff a mech would find in a bar. _If the bar was open!_

   Vaguely, Ratchet recollects a standing offer from Rung to share in the therapist’s personal stash some hypothetical evening when they’re both off duty or, you know, not in the middle of or recovering from some ship-wide crises. Ratchet scoffs at the likelihood of that happening. By all measures of politeness and decency, It’s too late to be bothering another mech for a drink…but on a ship like this one, Rung is just as likely as Ratchet to be up at this hour. It’s worth a shot.

**Inside Swerve's...**

   Now that Ratchet sounds like he’s moving on, Swerve turns back to the newest guest perched on a bar stool. “Not even officially open and I have mechs beating down the door! So, uh, where were we?”

   “I wanted to ask you a question,” Red Alert looks around as if he’s afraid someone might be listening in.

   Oh, Primus! Swerve chants in his head. ‘ _Please don’t ask me out on a date. Please don’t ask me out on a date. Please don’t ask me out on a date.’_

   It’s not that Red Alert is a bad mech, he just freaks the ever-lovin’ pit out of Swerve since that one time Swerve caught Red watching him sleep and Skids told him their security officer probably had a secret minibot fetish. Swerve is beginning to regret letting his roommate in the bar just a few minutes prior.

   “It’s about Tailgate,” Red Alert throws it out as a teaser and context in one as he leans onto the bartop. “Do you know if he’s seeing any mech aboard?”

   Aww pit! This is going to get awkward if Swerve has to defend Tailgate from Red’s mini fetish. But…would that get Swerve bonus marks with Tailgate?

   “Because I just dropped him off at Rung’s and they seemed…pleased to see each other.”

   “Pleased?” Swerve frowns. He’d just put a super drunken Tailgate to bed. Why would Tailgate be running back out to see Rung? It could just be a friendly visit…or Tailgate could have changed his mind. “Like, _how_ pleased?”

   “Like really, really pleased.”

   “Pleased as in ‘hey, I found an energon treat in my subspace’ pleased? Or pleased as in ‘holy Primus the war is over and I’m not rusting in a Decepticon death camp’ pleased?”

   Red Alert rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Really, just pretty pleased. I guess ‘I wasn’t expecting you but here you are and now I’m pleased’ kind of pleased.”

   “Ok, can we stop saying the word ‘pleased’?” Swerve interjects. “Because it’s starting to make me crazy!”

   “I’m just saying Tailgate and Rung were really…happy to see each other. Not to mention the fact that Tailgate told me he was looking for some action and specifically asked me to take him to Rung. Then Rung told me it was, get this, ‘just a casual affair.’ Can you believe that?”

   “But…but Rung wasn’t even on the list,” Swerve mutters.

   “What list?” Red Alert narrows his optics suspiciously. If there’s one thing that makes him nervous above all else, it’s other bots’ lists.

   “Did I say there was a list?” Swerve stammers. “Uh, no…no list. No list! Definitely not a list. There is _no_ list.”

   “Ok, now you can stop saying ‘list.’”

   “…right.”

   A supremely awkward moment of silence settles over the two mechs.

   “So…uh. Feel free to stay here, Red Alert. I am just…going…to go…check on something real quick.”

   “Oh, no problem. I just got a message from Ultra Magnus anyway.” Red Alert frowns as he reads over the internal text. “Huh. Needs me to help Blaster with some security feeds. Looks like I gotta go too. But, hey…you doing anything later?”

   “WOW!” Swerve accidentally shouts as he rushes to unlock the doors for Red Alert to exit. “Ultra Magnus sounds like he really needs you. Youbetterleavenow, BYE!”

**Halls of the _Lost Light,_ Lower Decks**

   “Rung?”

   Ratchet can’t help it if he sounds surprised, because he thoroughly is. The medic is still half a deck away from the therapist’s office, slowly picking his way through the dim halls when he turns a corner to find Rung himself leaning his shoulder heavily against a wall with his hands clamped tight over his right hip and face scrunched tight.

   “Ratchet,” Rung pants as he tries to straighten up, “did you see Tailgate? Or Whirl? They should be close."

   “You had them?” The surprise continues.

   “Yes, but I’m afraid I couldn’t keep up and I’ve lost them both. I’ve alerted Ultra Magnus but-”

   Ratchet rolls his optics to the ceiling. “If Magnus is on their trail, then you can forget them for a minute. You’re hurt?”

   “There was a scuffle with Whirl that resulted in a small collision with my desk. I think I may have knocked something loose. I’m having difficulty-“

   Rung tries to take a step forward and a horrible grinding noise has Ratchet rushing to still the smaller mech’s movement. “Have you been doing that for long? You shouldn’t even be walking!”

   “But I must find Tailgate.”

   Ratchet holds up a palm to stop Rung cold. “This is getting out of hand. Rung, we’ll find Tailgate if we have to wake the whole ship, but right now I need to get you to the medibay. If that joint is split, and it sure sounds like it is, that could turn into a rather serious medical issue. Leave Tailgate and Whirl to Ultra Magnus. He's good at what he does.”

   “Fine,” Rung concedes after a twisted cascade of emotions contorting his face, “But I’m afraid it’s going to be rather slow going back to the medibay.”

   “Rung, I’m an ambulance,” Ratchet smiles wryly. “I think we’ll manage.”

   The smaller mech hangs his head for a moment before meeting Ratchet's gaze sheepishly. “Actually, I have quite an aversion to confined spaces…”

   Ratchet sighs as gently as he can.

 

**Somewhere on the _Lost Light_...**

The chopper throws his arms up in exasperation. Even with Rewind’s helpful directions, Whirl still has not found Tailgate! There’s nowhere left for the minibot to go on this end of the deck without doubling back right into Whirl so where the frag…unless Rewind’s directions weren’t as helpful as they seemed. “Oh, well-played, Stick!”

   Whirl does an about-face and heads for the upper levels and habitation suites.

  

**Somewhere Else on the _Lost Light_...**

Tailgate is gone. Just gone. Cyclonus doesn’t even know which level he’s currently searching. He only knows he’s been to the bowels of the ship and is currently working his way back up and there’s been no further signs of his roommate.

    And why should that bother Cyclonus as much as it does? While he certainly wishes to see some bit of the Old Cybertron remain unchanged by time, he is not Tailgate’s keeper. He ultimately holds no say over what the minibot chooses to do, any mistakes he might make. There are surely good mechs on this ship. It is possible Tailgate may seek answers with one of them. And yet it strikes Cyclonus as horribly wrong to think of some less honorable mech seducing Tailgate into interface when the minibot doesn’t know the first thing about engaging in such acts. But instead of battling through the emotional discomfort and educating his roommate with anything more than the most basic aspects of interface, Cyclonus had allowed himself to redirect his energy into assaulting Whirl. Anything that may happen to Tailgate this evening is an indirect result of Cyclonus' own emotional cowardice. The thought twists Cyclonus’ tanks into a mess.

   The only thing left for Cyclonus to do is return to their shared habsuite and wait to see the fallout.

 

**Command Deck...**

“Found him,” Red Alert calls over his shoulder.

   Ultra Magnus leaves Blaster and his station to check Red Alert’s monitor. The security officer points to a shot of a long hall where the distinct shape of Whirl is covering ground quickly.

   “Why are we looking for Whirl again?” Blaster asks curiously from across the command deck.

   “It is Whirl,” Ultra Magnus replies while doing his best to keep his tone neutral. “Need I say more?”

   Blaster shrugs and pulls a face half thoughtful, and half pained wince, that shows Ultra Magnus' explanation was quite adequate.

   “Where is he now?”

   “On the lowest level of habsuits and heading for a lift,” Red Alert notes.

   Ultra Magnus follows Whirl’s progress as the helicopter comes upon Chromedome and Rewind heading in the opposite direction. There seems to be a brief altercation before Whirl shoves his way past the two. In a strange turn of events, Rewind turns to pursue Whirl with Chromedome trailing behind. “I have my suspicions as to where he’s heading but continue to track him. Be sure all cameras are activated around the first level of habsuits. See if you can get a lock on Cyclonus as well. I’d like to have this whole nuisance ended before Captain Rodimus returns for his shift.”

 

**Just Below Habsuite 14...**

   Whirl makes it onto the elevator and the doors seal before that sneaky Rewind and his conjux can slip inside. He didn’t waste a lot of time asking questions but given Rewind's earlier lie and the fact he was coming from the upper suites- Whirl’s pretty convinced the pair just came from the direction of habsuite fourteen. Which means Whirl finally has Tailgate cornered. When the elevator opens, Whirl bursts from the space at a full-on run.

   Twenty…eighteen…sixteen…fourteen!

   Whirl skids to a stop, starts to knock, realizes that’s stupid, and punches the ‘open’ button instead.

   When the door to habsuite fourteen slides aside smoothly, Whirl is assaulted with the sounds of a minibot screaming in overload and the sight of Tailgate fingering his own side ports.

   “What the frag!?!”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *walks in. sees readers staring.*  
> Well, hello there.

   “What the frag!?!”

   Tailgate yelps as his spark slams to a halt in his chest. He jerks his fingers from his ports at the same time he whips around to identify his sudden guest, promptly loses his balance, and tumbles off the side of his recharge berth with a half strangled exclamation and a thunderous _clang_!

   As the minibot cautiously peeks back over the side of his berth, his spark picks its rhythm back up and then doubles at the sight of the crazy, blue helicopter standing in his doorway. Whirl’s attention is fixed on the screen mounted to the wall where Rewind’s recordings continue to play. The green minibot in the clip seems to have found a second wind after his first explosive finish and low moans are already filling Tailgate’s suite again.

   “Ge-GET OUT OF HERE!” Tailgate finally manages, his embarrassment shattering his volume control and melting his face simultaneously.

   “What _is_ this?” Whirl asks more in shock than anything else and the larger mech is either unable or unwilling to tear his single optic away from the screen as he closes the hab door behind him and the lock engages with a beep.

   “It’s private!” Tailgate squeaks as he fumbles around the floor trying to find the mobile controller he dropped during his first mini sparkatttack.

   “It looks like porn.” Whirl cocks his head in wonder. “But how in the name of Devastator’s undercarriage did you get ahold of…oh slag. It’s from Rewind isn’t it?”

   “No!” His voice only warbles a little as he lies in remembrance of the archivist’s rules.

   “If not Rewind’s, then it’s gotta be yours…”

   It sounds like there might be more to that statement, like Whirl’s trying to figure out something else, but Tailgate is not interested in waiting to hear anything more. He finally rescues the mobile control out from under Cyclonus’ recharge slab by the window and scrambles to find the right button. The screen blessedly blinks off just as the green minibot is stuffing two fingers in his mouth and arching his back.

   Whirl flinches then snaps irritably. “Hey, I was watching that!”

   The helicopter reaches forward and pushes the power button directly below the screen. The video springs back to life and a moan so loud it could almost be called a scream bounces off the wall.

   “Stop it!” Tailgate glances down to find the ‘off’ button but before he can press it, the remote is suddenly whisked from his hands. “Don’t touch that!”

   “Hold on, almost done.” Whirl’s not even looking at Tailgate as he holds the remote high in delicately pinched claws.

   The minibot in the vid rocks between his hands crammed deep down his intake and up his valve, little swear words popping out between smothered vents, and Tailgate can’t take it anymore. This isn’t something he really recognizes as interfacing but he knows it’s not something he wants to share with anyone just yet! Least of all Nut- Job! Tailgate makes a break for the screen itself but doesn’t get two steps from his starting point before Whirl reaches out and plucks him off the ground by the back of his hood. By the Pits! Tailgate’s going to have to get spikes installed there or something! Tailgate immediately twists and turns kicking off Whirl’s thighs and very nearly scrambling up the bigger bot’s torso as he grasps for the control. He manages to get one hand under Whirl’s single optic and force it back as the former Wrecker grumbles in discomfort.

   “Stop squirming, would ya?” Whirl strains against little hands on his head and the wriggling body occasionally blocking his view. "Do you know this is now only the third confirmed stash of robo-porn aboard the _Lost Light?"_

   “Turn it off!” The mini demands as he lunges spectacularly in Whirl’s grip.

   Finally, Tailgate’s frantic movements yield results and the shift in mass to Whirl’s upper body sends them both crashing backward onto Tailgate’s recharge slab with a collective grunt.

  “Just hold still for a little bit!” The control slips from Whirl’s grasp and spins to a stop at the head of Tailgate’s recharge slab. Whirl practically snarls when Tailgate’s knee bashes the side of his head in the continued scramble. “Do you know how rare a treat this is for me?”

   “No! I don't care! You have to get out.” Tailgate brushes the device with his stubby fingers before three prongs clamp around his foot and drag him away with a screech of metal on metal. Behind them, the onscreen mini has dissolved into a fit of gasping whines and pleas and Tailgate feels a similar but decidedly more blubbery panic rising in himself. His foot connects with Whirl’s face with a definite purpose the same moment the first choking sob breaks past Tailgate’s mask.  “This isn’t for you!”

   “And who are you,” the pale blue mech rolls atop Tailgate as he alternately gropes for the remote and wrestles two, tiny flailing feet into submission, “the porn police?”

   In the struggle, Tailgate’s back bashes into Whirl’s optic casing and the larger mech flinches, his claw accidentally bopping the coveted device with unintended force off the side of the recharge slab where it cracks against the wall. The mini lets out a little gasp of shock that twists into a moan of distress that blends right into the filthy cacophony ringing out behind them.

   Tailgate twists beneath Whirl to beat his fists furiously against the sharp chest above him and his visor flashes so violently that he can’t even see to aim each blow. “You can’t be here because interfacing is for people who love each other and I’m not in love with you!”

   “Seriously? Love? Yeah, this has Rewind and Chromedome’s sappy signatures all over it.” Whirl hovers above the flailing mech, not even bothering to still the punches considering only half seem to connect and those hurt about as much as a light rainstorm. The barely suppressed sobs get real annoying real quick though. Especially since they’re all Tailgate’s really sad noises and not the decidedly sexy sobs of the green mini who is now Whirl’s new favorite actor. Whirl glances back over his shoulder and is disappointed to find the onscreen mech taking a break- fully covered in his own fluids and helm lolling to the side as some other mech shuffles into frame to wipe down the green bot. Whirl snorts. “You made me miss the good stuff. Let me just back it up, would ya?”

   “NOOO!” Tailgate howls.

   There’s a furious pounding against the door accompanied by some frantic gibberish. Speaking of Rewind and Chromedome…

   “Fine! Whatever!” Whirl could spit if he had the mouth for it. “That’s not even why I’m here, slaggit!”

   “Why are you here?” Tailgate demands with the most dramamtic misery Whirl’s ever heard in a mech who wasn’t literally dying.

   “For the truth.” Whirl pokes Tailgate in the side hard enough that the smaller mech yelps and squirms. “Spill, and I mean the whole truth in simple terms even a scraplet would understand. All of that scrap you said earlier about spiking big bots and getting spiked…is any of that true?”

   “…no.” Tailgate finally squeaks.

    A massive thud punctuates Tailgate’s confession and the habsuite door bows in from a great impact…kinda like a really oversized shoulder just pounded into it. 

   “For the love of-“ Whirl throws his head back and growls before wagging a scolding claw in Tailgate’s face. “That is not cool little guy. Do you know how much trouble you’ve got me in?”

   A low grumble joins the unintelligible mess on the other side of the door.

   “ME!?!” Tailgate demands, the misery evaporating into a fury that has the minibot quaking between Whirl’s arms. “You were the one talking about…about SPIKING…and-“

   “And you were the one acting like you are some kind of beast machine! You can't lead a mech on like that! They'll think they got a chance at something that's never gonna happen and ain't that just a kick in the nonexistent face?”

   A sharp gasp interrupts the haughty defense Tailgate was mounting and the mini jerks in surprise. Who in the name of… Tailgate rolls into a half-seated position to stare suspiciously over Whirl’s shoulder. Whirl cranes his own neck to look behind him. The same recording is still going with the same green minibot! But now, he’s been laid out on the floor and a deep blue heli-former is crouched overtop, their lower halves slamming together repeatedly in slow, hard jerks. Each thrust forces an increasingly wild vent from the mini. Tailgate’s visor is frozen, his vocalizer stalled.

   “…How the Pit is he still going?” Whirl finally marvels out loud.

   A happy beep signals a disengaging lock and then a jarring, squealing, scraping noise accompanies the sight of silver talons wedging between the door and frame and forcing the battered door back on its track. Tailgate’s spark leaps at the sight of purple armor and then plummets at the furious burn of red optics. Cyclonus’ jaw is clenched in a throaty snarl before he’s even shouldered past the crumpled door into the room and his sharp gaze seems to flit between Tailgate and all of Whirl's most vulnerable parts.  A ragged shout draws the warrior’s attention to the screen by the door and the image of a minibot being fragged into the ground by a mech with rotary blades turns the snarl into a full roar.

   “Wow," Whirl begins with one claw raised haltingly as he glances between the filth onscreen and the minibot pinned beneath him, only know recognizing the uncanny resemblance in position and frametypes, "That's some crazy coincidence! This is not at all-“

  That is all Whirl gets out before Cyclonus launches himself and tackles them both to the ground.

   The two land hard and skid into the base of Cyclonus’ recharge slab where claws and pincers immediately go for eyes and throats. Tailgate rolls to a stop, having been scraped off his own slab by the force of a flying Cyclonus and Whirl’s flailing limbs. Before the minibot can even shake it off and clear the static from his visor, large hands are scooping under his arms and hauling him back up.

   “You ok?” A frantic voice demands.

   By the time Tailgate realizes that’s Rewind with panic-stricken features kneeling on his recharger, the blue and white mini is already being dragged up, higher, until even his feet no longer brush the sleeping surface.

   “Let’s move!”

   Tailgate can’t look up to confirm that’s Chromedome’s arms he’s gathered in because he’s too busy staring at the vicious, snarling tangle of Cyclonus and Whirl across the way. The base of Cyclonus' recharge slab dents at an awkward angle when the warrior's kick misses Whirl's head by scant inches.

   “Slag,” Rewind’s half-numb mutter carries over the grunting effort of the struggle going on feet away and he points to the still active vid-screen, “Is this the data slug I gave you?”

   Gyroscopes still swimming, Tailgate nods mutely at the video where the mini and flier have switched positions and picked up the pace.

   “My bad, bud. That’s some of the, uh, harder stuff. Probably should’ve checked-”

   “You can apologize later!” Chromedome snaps above as he shifts Tailgate into the crook of one arm and snatches Rewind up from Tailgate’s recharge slab with the other. The three retreat just in time to be clear when Whirl slams Cyclonus face-first into the slab.

   By the time the mnemosurgeon backpedals through the sad remains of the habsuite door and into the hall, Tailgate is finally coming to some awareness. “Wait!”

   “Trust me, Tailgate.” Rewind’s conjux mutters. “We want to be out here.”

   Rewind taps the camera on the side of his head and begins recording a second before Cylconus pulls off a remarkable reversal and smashes Whirl back into the same recharge slab.

   “No! Stop!” Tailgate squirms desperately until he manages to wriggle from Chromedome’s grasp and drop to the floor where his legs immediately give way and he lands in a heap.  “Don’t hurt him!”

   “Don’t worry,” Rewind reassures as he dangles at his conjux’s side, “Cyclonus has this one in the bag.”

   The jet manages to actually slam Whirl through Tailgate’s recharge slab on the third try.

   “No,” Tailgate’s spark pulses in alarm as he scrambles up from the floor. “I mean, Whirl. Cyclonus, don’t hurt Whirl!”

   The purple jet looks up for just a moment in incredulity, claws still curled in attack. Whirl uses that moment to lunge from the folded remains of the recharge slab and tackle his opponent. The two skid overtop the farthest recharge slab and slam into the viewing window. The dull _'thunk'_ of mechs ricocheting off reinforced material makes everyone present flinch.

   “What are you doing, Tailgate?” Chromedome interrupts the minibot’s sudden flight back into the chaotic habsuite by hooking a long hand under the white hood.

   _Seriously, spikes!_ Tailgate thinks desperately.

   “I don’t think he meant it,” he says instead as he tries to wriggle from Chromedome's protective grip. “I don’t think he was trying to do anything bad to me.”

   “Let’s leave that verdict to Ultra Magnus, just to be sure.” Rewind, now on his feet, takes Tailgate by the arm and draws him farther away from the door as the grappling mechs inside rise, stumble across the room, and smash into the viewscreen- finally stopping the recording.

   “I don’t want to kill him!” Tailgate moans in frustrated horror as if he himself has a fusion cannon to the former Wrecker’s helm. “Not again!”

   “Hey, everyone. What’s going on here?”

   Tailgate flinches at the sheer unexpectedness of Swerve’s amiable greeting. When he turns, Tailgate finds the other mini’s smile warped in some queasy semblance of its usual beaming state. Swerve’s arms are clasped strangely behind his back, his visor flashes in puzzlement and his head keeps drifting toward the obvious sounds of pain and battle in habsuite fourteen. Behind the bartender’s helm is a barely hidden rainbow of crystals cut into strange open cups.

   “Cyclonus and Whirl are fighting to the death.” Rewind fills the red and white bot in and then notices the semi-hidden crystals. “What’s _that_?”

   “Uh, what’s…what?” Swerve mutters haltingly and the crystals drift a little lower behind wide shoulders.

   “Make way!”

   The assembled bots jump as Ultra Magnus’ voice booms from the opposite hallway.

   “Here we go!” Rewind gestures grandly to the barely contained commotion inside habsuite fourteen and the Duly Appointed Enforcer wastes no time barreling into the fray.

   “Hold on. Everyone, wait a minute,” Tailgate pleads before parts of Tailgate’s already decimated recharge slab bounce off Magnus’ frame and tumble into the hall. He thinks he can hear Whirl curse amid the Enforcer’s barked commands and Cyclonus’ snarls. "Please?"

   “Tailgate, oh, what a relief!”

   All helms turn back to Swerve’s side of the hall to welcome the ship’s therapist…who is inexplicably cradled in the CMO’s arms. And Ratchet is…blushing?

   “Is everything alright?” Rung looks about from the debris drifting into the hall, to Chromedome and Rewind with a hand each on Tailgate’s frame, to the lovely bundle behind Swerve’s back. “…Are those crystals?”

   “Are those crystals shaped like flowers?” Ratchet queries a bit more specifically.

   “No!” Swerve yelps and slowly backs into a wall.

   “What in the sunny side of Hell is going on here?” Ratchet demands- though careful not to shout into the audials of the smaller mech in his arms.

   “Cyclonus. Whirl. Battle to the death.” Rewind recaps again. “Magnus is in there too.”

   “Rung! Ratchet! We have to make them stop!” Tailgate trembles and his visor starts fritzing spastically in prelude to a truly spectacular meltdown. “This is horrible. _I’m_ horrible! It's all my fault. Everyone, I’m not in any danger.”

   At that moment, Ultra Magnus flies backward out of habsuite fourteen with a grunt, taking part of the door frame with him and colliding with the linked trio of Tailgate, Rewind, and Chromedome. For the blue and white minibot, everything goes black.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bows deeply and holds out chapter*  
> Please, take it.
> 
> Dedicated to every reader who has waited so patiently (including those who silently worried I'd never finish.)  
> But the biggest thanks goes to TomorrowsHero. If this awesome reader hadn't supported me via Patreon, I probably would have put this off for another six months. That monthly pledge really compelled me to finish. You are absolutely a hero.

   Tailgate wakes in a soft reboot- systems running a little slow but definitely there- and is greeted by a white ceiling. He recognizes this particular ceiling and the overly clean smell that makes the air sharp all around him. The familiarity causes no small bit of distress.

   “The medibay!” Tailgate gasps and bolts upright only to be overwhelmed by a horrible heaviness in his head that makes him sag off-kilter and wipes his visual and audial feeds. He gropes out blindly and latches onto something sturdy enough to keep himself in a more-or-less seated position. After a little more time, his systems reset and everything comes into view, coalescing and brightening with each second until he can make out his own hand gripping a much larger white forearm that eventually attaches itself to a very concerned Chromedome. Tailgate manages to croak out the question half stuck in his throat. “How long?”

   Chromedome cocks his head quizzically and a muffled voice chuffs softly to Tailgate’s right. The minibot tips his head to find Rewind seated on the next berth, legs hanging over the side. Even as he teases, the archivist’s voice is kind. “Don’t worry about it. You did good this time; little more than an hour offline. Not even close to your previous record. Which is extra impressive, seeing as how you were the lucky bot who pretty much took the full brunt of an Ultra Magnus smackdown.”

   A sigh puffs against Tailgate’s mask as the mini slumps back to the medical slab in relief. After the panic of a few more potentially wasted centuries passes, Tailgate begins to really feel the effects of said smackdown. Everything hurts in that dull way that makes him think some of his pain receptors must be medically dampened but he is alive and present and that’s good enough for the moment. He lets his visor dim and settles back to rest after his sudden online and subsequent scare.  “Thank goodness. What did I miss in an hour?”

   Chromedome and Rewind meet long, silent gazes and the lack of sound becomes decidedly awkward before Tailgate’s visor powers on in the tiniest cautious slit and Rewind supplies an ominous, “Well…”

 

**_Outside Habsuite Fourteen. Little More than an Hour Before_ **

  “Holy cow!”

   “Out of the way! Magnus, can you hear me? He’s dazed. Swerve, help me roll him.”

   Ratchet deposits Rung on the floor so quickly that the orange mech dips and stumbles to catch himself on the nearest wall. Those crystal flowers crash to the floor as Swerve drops them in favor of pushing against the massive blue and white plating heaped just outside habsuite fourteen. Inside, Whirl and Cyclonus’ battle continues to rage even as Whirl shouts into the hall after Magnus. “And stay out of it!”

   Chromedome stirs with a grunt and squirms under the Magnus pile until a broad shoulder pops out from beneath the Enforcer’s back. A thick, white arm quakes as Chromedome pushes against the ground and rolls his shoulder, like some kind of jack, trying to shift Ultra Magnus’ dead weight.

   “Crushing us,” Chromedome grits out in warning and Ratchet can already tell from the angle of the mech’s torso that there’s going to be some reconstructive surgery to those flared hips,  and the legs too, if they don’t move quickly.

   “The minis?” Rung asks with his spark in his throat.

   “Rewind’s here,” The white helm is barely visible tucked against Chromedome’s chest with the rest of the mini hidden by his conjux’s frame. Swerve slips into the pocket of space beneath Ratchet’s straining hands and braces his legs, using his broad shoulders and rising slowly to give the downed mnemosurgeon enough room to uncurl his upper half and Rung pulls a lightly groaning Rewind from the protective cocoon of Chromedome’s body.

   “Where’s Tailgate?” Swerve demands, body already shaking from exertion as he and Ratchet struggle to keep just Ultra Magnus’ arm and shoulder propped above Chromedome. “You see him? Tailgate?”

   “I can’t tell,” Ratchet growls. “Can you free yourself, Chromedome?”

   “Yes, but I think I found Tailgate.” The trapped mech struggles to flex the fingers of the arm still pinned and they brush against a warm frame that seems to hum at a different pace than the heavy body above. “And I’m pretty sure I’m the only thing keeping him from being totally flattened.”

    “Come on, Ultra Magnus,” Rung pats the Enforcer’s face sharply, “You must move!”

   Ultra Magnus rumbles something that sounds annoyed.

   “You two!” Ratchet thunders at habsuite fourteen with every iota of authority, real or affected, the medic can muster. Whirl rolls to a stop and Cyclonus staggers to his feet, energon dripping from a tear in his neck. Both combatants pause just long enough to stare, venting heavily, at Ratchet. “Yes, you two! The ones with your helms up each other’s afts! We’ve got mechs down. Get out here and put that energy to good use!”

   After a half second of debate, Cyclonus casts a scathing glare to Whirl and lumbers for the door with a parting promise. “We’re not done.”

   “Over here.” Rung waves Cyclonus toward Ultra Magnus’ shoulders.

   “Where’s Tailgate?” The purple mech casts about as his world finally expands beyond murdering Whirl.

   “Where do you think?” Swerve shouts from his position nearly doubled over beneath Ultra Magnus’ arm.

   In two strides, Cyclonus places himself opposite Swerve and Ratchet and lifts.

“Up, straight up,” Ratchet barks and nods before dissolving into furious grumbling. “And lift!”

   The impromptu rescue team grunts collectively. A bot of Ultra Magnus’ size is no joke, even to two mid-sized mechs and a mini. But the moment Swerve’s legs hit their limit of strain and stagger the mini, Magnus’ unconscious frame lifts a little higher. The barkeep finds his footing again with just enough time to see Whirl readjust his claws around Ultra Magnus’ legs and begin the sideways shuffle of the downed Enforcer. A marginally recovered Rewind and Rung are making even shorter work of dragging clear a scuffed and snippy Chromedome and a battered, blue and white frame.

   “That’s it! That’s good,” Ratchet directs the moment the crusher and crushees have been separated. “Now just set Magnus down gent-“

   Whirl abruptly releases his hold on the mech’s legs with almost defiant flourish and Cyclonus follows suit almost immediately after (disengaging with a rapid step back so as not to allow his own pedes to be crushed) which, of course, leaves Swerve and Ratchet to nearly buckle under the weight on their side before even the two of them drop the frame the last few inches to the floor with bitter murmurs and death glares.

   As Ratchet stoops to examine Chromedome and Tailgate, Rewind complains loudly of the stupidity of certain mechs aboard the ship; Chromedome half-heartedly denies his Rewind-given title of ‘biggest idiot’; Swerve collapses against the wall just far enough away to not impose but close enough to keep his optics glued to the injured; Cyclonus growls something subvocal and bears his teeth at Whirl, Whirl whispers venom in return before flexing his claws; and Rung stumbles into the space between the two warriors that, in the span of two seconds, is positively crackling with the promise of a renewed fight.

   This is how Rodimus and Drift stumble upon a whole gaggle of mechs loitering in the hall outside habsuite fourteen with the unconscious, sprawling form of the Duly Appointed Officer of the Tyrest Accord taking up a large section of hallway. Three mechs are down- four if you count Swerve propped strutless against the wall, there’s broken crystal everywhere- not to mention what looks suspiciously like parts of a hab door, two mechs are covered in battle wounds and another sways dangerously…

   Rodimus throws his hands in the air and shouts to the ceiling- summoning the last of the mechs in nearby rooms who haven’t’ already poked their helms into the hall. “Somebody tell me what’s happening on my own fragging ship!”

 

**_Medibay. Now-ish_ **

   “Is he ok?” Tailgate cringes away from the answer. “Ultra Magnus, I mean.”

   “Yeah. Big guy’s fine,” Rewind assures. “Mad as a shaken box of scraplets but physically ok. He woke up as Trailbraker and Ambulon were dragging him to the medibay.”

   Tailgate takes a very deep vent. “Am I… in trouble?”

   Rewind and Chromedome share another uneasy look. Tailgate knows that look. Yes. The answer is yes. He’s definitely in some kind of trouble.

   “Not as much trouble as some other bots,” Rewind offers helpfully. “While you were out, Rodimus brought half the ship to the medibay so he and Magnus could try and sort everything out but…”

 

**_Medibay. Earlier_ **

   “And that’s when Cyclonus broke Ratchet’s face?” Rodimus interjects trying to wrap his mind around the collective narrative.

   “No, that was earlier,” the CMO grumbles as he focusses on filling in Rung’s cracked hip joint. “By that point I was on my way to see Swerve.”

   “And… I was with Red Alert who just came from Rung’s where he was with Tailgate,” the bartender adds haltingly, not too sure of the timeline himself.

   Rodimus flails again and releases a retched, snarling growl of frustration. “Red Alert too? Is there any mech on this ship not part of this thing?!”

   “If you’re going to bring in everyone,” First Aid calls over from the berth where he’s checking the vitals on a very dented and unconscious Tailgate, “Perceptor’s on the list as well.”

   “Driiiift!” Rodimus growls/whines dramatically as he drags his hands down his own face.

   “Calling him now.”

 

**_Medibay. Now-ish_ **

  “An hour later,” Chromedome sighs just remembering the headache, “the only thing we were missing was some kind of statement from you, Tailgate.”

   “Luckily, I had it all here.” Rewind taps the camera on the side of his head. “Remember when you spilled in our room? Magnus declared it adequate to clear just about everyone of any foul intentions.”

   “Just about everybody?” Tailgate can make at least one very educated guess as to which mechs are paying the price for the most horrifically disastrous quest for knowledge outside of…well, the quest for Knights of Cybertron thus far. That thought alone has him hunching between protective, oversized shoulder.

   “Yeah, the brig is a couple of mechs fuller now.” It seems a part of Rewind is trying very valiantly not to snicker. “You better talk to both of them eventually.”

   The white and blue mini nods slowly. A nearby glimmer of reflected light catches his optics and Tailgate stares at the single crystal flower sitting in a vase on the side table.

   "Oh yeah!" Rewind follows Tailgate's gaze and snaps up the vase, bringing it closer for the other bot's inspection. "Pretty, isn't it?"

   "It is." Tailgate takes the vase and touches the bud carefully. It looks very fragile. "Where'd it come from?"

   "An anonymous well-wisher," Chromedome replies though Rewind fidgets and Tailgate gets the sense there might be a little more to it than that. The fact that he has well-wishers even after such an evening of inconveniencing or upsetting half the ship reminds Tailgate about the worst casualties of his social train wreck. Relinquishing the gift back to Rewind, Tailgate eases over to the edge of the berth. He doesn’t ache quite so badly as when he first rebooted and it’s probably better to get the entire process over with as soon as possible. "I want to go to the brig."

   “Uh, just a minute,” Chromedome stops Tailgate with a hand on the mini’s arm, “Even if you're sure, First Aid or Ratchet have to clear you medically and then we have to call Ultra Magnus. You’re…not allowed to walk around by yourself just yet.”

   “In light of recent events,” Rewind explains.

   “That,” Tailgate exvents quietly, “is probably fair.”

 

**_Brig. Right Now_ **

   The brig is a lot brighter than Tailgate would have guessed. Though his expectations of confining areas are somewhat colored by his own experiences. Ultra Magnus waits at the door giving Tailgate just enough room that he doesn’t feel the shadow looming over him, but close enough that the mini can still hear the Enforcer's engine revving in displeasure.

   "You're under no obligation to be here," the Enforcer reminds Tailgate for the third or fourth time since Tailgate asked to come.

   "I know." Which Tailgate realizes is a lie the moment it leaves him so he amends. "I feel like I should."

   The first cell is occupied by two mechs Tailgate remembers in passing, both the scratched frames recharging peacefully after a long, drunken evening. The second cell houses a mech that Tailgate wasn’t quite expecting to see. Tailgate turns to Ultra Magnus ready to ask if there is some kind of mistake but the cold look Tailgate gets in return has the mini whipping right back around to the second cell with Cyclonus folded grumpily into the far corner. For once, Tailgate is sure the crossed arms and far-off stare are in direct response to the older Cybertronian’s current situation and not just default glowering.

   “Um, Cyclonus?”

   The warrior does not respond and Tailgate fiddles with his hands to keep himself from trying to reach out and touch the glowing energy field between them. Tailgate’s never been in a brig. For all he knows, that wall hurts. And maybe they’re soundproof.

   “Cyclonus?”

   “I hear you,” the mech snaps, making Tailgate flinch at the unexpectedness of it. “Say something or leave.”

   Ultra Magnus’ pedes echo as he takes two imposing steps forward in warning. One of Tailgate’s hands rise to ask the Enforcer to back down. Magnus notes the gesture and does not come any closer. Thank goodness. The whole thing feels awkward enough without Magnus breathing down the mini’s hood.

   “I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Tailgate mutters even though it’s a bit harder to mean it when Cyclonus won’t even bother to look his way. “Rewind and Chromedome told me about you and Whirl. They said you might have been trying to…to help me. To protect me?”

   He waits to see if Cyclonus will validate the theory. He gets no reaction. Tailgate huffs and presses a little closer to that nearly invisible wall between them. “Ultra Magnus says you wouldn’t tell him anything either. If you were just trying to help me out, you should tell him. I’m sure he’d let you out or…”

   A neon blue visor seeks out Magnus’ optics. The Enforcer shakes his head.

   “Ok, maybe he won’t but…if that was your whole reason for fighting Whirl, I’d like to know.”

   Red optics dim briefly, half-lit in thought. Cyclonus’ chest rises with a steady vent in…and falls with a steady vent out. A further prompt sits in Tailgate’s queue but, before he can use it, Cyclonus turns his face away- toward the far wall- and Tailgate takes it as the larger mech’s sole comment on the topic.

   “Fine,” the mini practically spits from his vocalizer. If Cyclonus can be angry, so can Tailgate. Even though Tailgate isn’t entirely sure what has him so flustered. The fact that he’s possibly the reason Cyclonus in this position at all? But he can’t even know that for sure? The fact that an apology is all Tailgate can offer but Cyclonus doesn’t even regard the mini as someone worthy of a simple acknowledgement? Maybe an unsettling feeling that’s all of it and none of it.

   “Give it up, Little Legs.”

   Tailgate jumps at the voice as much as the sound of heavy tapping from the third cell before shuffling cautiously over.

   Whirl sits half sprawled on the floor almost as if he'd been dumped there by mistake without the desire to right himself. This, at least, is a mech Tailgate understands the confinement of. The chopper's claws strikes the metal floor in some half-sparked rhythm. Probably meant to get Tailgate's attention. Though maybe also meant to rile up Cyclonus given the low growl that comes from the second cell. 

   “I have a real name,” the blue and white bot whispers- mostly to himself.

   “Yeah, but mine’s better,” Whirl argues before flopping back with a dramatic crash to stare at the ceiling. “Getting a bit old though. Time for something new. Less obvious maybe. What da ya think? Marshmallow?”

   “I don’t know what that even-“

   “I know!” Whirl’s torso jerks upright and his claw tips clack together in a moment of revelation. “I’ll call you Panic Legs! On account of the way you, ya know, panic. And you got those legs. Ooh! But what about Riot? Knew a mech with that name once but he didn’t know how to stir up slag half as spectacular as you.”

   Tailgate takes half a step away from Whirl’s cell, visor flickering as he processes the harsh tone, and bumps against something firm.

   “Watch your mouth,” Ultra Magnus warns from far above Tailgate’s helm.

   “Haven’t got one,” Whirl snarks and clacks his claws. It sounds a little like a chuckle.

   “You’re in extraordinarily poor standing already.” Magnus reaches down to nudge Tailgate toward the exit so that the ship’s Enforcer can take up the entire space before Whirl’s cell with his massive frame.

   “No!” Tailgate protests the less-than-subtle hint to let Magnus intervene. The mini's probably allowed enough of that for one evening. “He’s right. It was my fault.”

   “As I understand the circumstances, you had no knowledge that would-“

   “I lied.” Even though Tailgate has cut off a mech more than three times his size, he can’t say the tone of his voice is exactly strong. Just as long as he can avoid a complete meltdown, he can do this. He resets a quick system or two so he can continue with a little less waver. “I lied to everyone. Nothing I said in Swerve’s bar was true.”

   Even if he does notice the suspicious quirk of Ultra Magnus’ brow at the mention of the bar, Tailgate can’t comment. He’s far too busy accidentally letting himself get worked up again.

   “I wanted to- I…I didn’t want anyone to think I'm different from any other mech. I'm not. I’ve just…missed a lot." Then the mini turns to Whirl. "But you wouldn’t have even looked my way if I hadn’t said all that. Would you?”

   “Well, I can’t say I _never_ would have,” Whirl mutters though it feels a lot more like he’s aiming to fill the space by being contrary than actually disagreeing. Then he growls, anger springing up in his field like a prickly bubble and, somehow, that feels genuine. “’Course, had I known you weren’t actually some kind of freak, I wouldn’t have bothered at Swerve's! You are the worst kind of mech, Panic Legs.”

   The mech’s single optic is focused on slowly flexing claws and, once the minibot can push beyond the hurt of Whirl’s accusation, Tailgate wonders if Whirl’s own circumstances make him appear so incredibly different to the other mechs on the _Lost Light_. That must feel as lonely as Tailgate’s still-narrow world.

   “I’m sorry.”

   A scratched and dusty blue helm snaps up to glare at Tailgate. “What the frag are you whimpering for? I’m the one in the brig with a list of ‘sensitivity’ vids to watch.”

   “I’m just…really sorry, Whirl.”

   The heliformer twitches the tiniest bit, like the sound of his own name hurts him, before he waves a claw in a rude brush-off.

   Tailgate’s not quite done though, the memory of stress and fear and confusion from the last few hours raises its rusted, ugly head. “What you did was wrong too, ya know! You chased me and scared me half to death!”

   Whirl blanches but turns his back on Tailgate in an eerily good imitation of Cyclonus. “Yeah, well. Whatever.”

   Even that dismissal doesn’t hurt like it could.

   “Are you finished, Tailgate? I promise you’ll never reason with this one,” Ultra Magnus rumbles.

   Tailgate thinks they might at least have met some sort of strange understanding.

   “Yeah, I’m done.”

   “Then let’s go. Your probation consists of a mandatory health and education meeting. Ratchet’s orders.”

   Tailgate nods even as a horrible sense of foreboding creeps up on him. He casts one last look into the second cell on the way out, hoping against hope…

   “Hey, Panic legs!”

   The minibot halts and resists the urge to huff. Apparently, that’s the name that’s gonna stick.

   "Yeah?"

   “Everyone else can frag off. You are what you are and if other mechs don't like it, that's their damage.”

   Whirl’s words are still sinking in when one of Magnus’ hands drift up to gesture the minibot onward. The first placement of his pede is unsure, a flicker of a field tugs at Tailgate’s and his bright blue visor meats twin red optics in the second cell. Cyclonus does not look away this time. Instead, the mech dips his head in a wordless agreement. Tailgate’s spark lifts, just a little bit, and the bot continues on.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's official, I make no fanfiction promises ever again because the moment I set a deadline, the world goes to Hell around me.  
> Anyhoooo, here's that epilogue/teaser that was 1- massively delayed and 2- way longer than anticipated. I hope you enjoy it. There's some silly, some sexy, and some surprise art!

 

__

   “Whatcha got there, Tailgate?” Swerve leans just far enough over the bar see the datapad in the other mini’s hands.

   Tailgate tips his hands to offer a clearer view of the medical pamphlet on interface-transferred viruses (with pictures). “Required reading.”

   A shock of pink lights up Swerve’s face and the bartender winces, missing the glass he was pouring into and soaking the counter with Engex.

   “Oh come on!” Swerve mutters to himself as he fumbles for a rag to stop the worst of the creeping liquid before redirecting his attention back to Tailgate. “Ratchet sure is giving you an awful lot of prep material, isn’t he?”

   “Yeah.” Tailgate puffs out a sigh and slumps against the bar top, careful to avoid the sticky spots, and powers down the digital display. “Not just him either. This one’s actually from Ambulon. Last week, there was another one outside my door titled ‘The History of Cybertronian Interface: A Thorough Account’. Ninety-nine percent sure that one’s from Perceptor. And I’ve been in Rung’s office more times than the whole crew put together I think.”

   “Well…is all that…helping?” Swerve ventures as he slides a finished drink down the bar top where Skids receives it without looking or spilling a drop.

   “Actually, yeah.” Tailgate admits, a bit surprised himself by the things he never knew he never knew…and certainly didn’t learn in his initial (and horribly misguided) inquiries. “Yeah, it’s helping a lot!”

   They make optic contact and the question is there in Swerve’s eyes and on the uneasy twitch of the minibot’s mouth but he doesn’t ask. Tailgate answers anyway, a smidge of heat rising in his face even after all the hours of research and conversations leading up to his choice. He gets why this is such a personal topic now but he’s learned which mechs it’s ok to trust with this. “I decided I really am gonna get an array.”

   Swerve stares very pointedly at the counter, perhaps wiping a bit faster than necessary, with his optics wide but carefully not too bright. “Ah. Well, congratulations! Should…should we throw a party?”

   The bartender’s smile is a little crooked- not sure if the question managed to come out more joke or horribly insensitive suggestion. But Tailgate laughs.

   “No, thank you! I think I’m gonna be a bit more quiet about everything this time around.”

   “No party. Got it.” Swerve’s smile finally settles into something warm and familiar and both mechs relax.

   It’s becoming easier and easier to discuss things of this nature and Tailgate wonders how he got so lucky to find such support after his rough start. Swerve, in particular, was very gracious in accepting Tailgate’s thorough apology for an awkward, ignorant proposal- not to mention the part he may have played in Ultra Magnus discovering Swerve’s previously unsanctioned (and now grudgingly approved) bar. Swerve was almost a little too gracious actually. Tailgate suspects it may have a little something to do with that single crystal flower tucked away for safekeeping in a storage box under Tailgate’s recharger. The bartender hasn’t admitted to anything but, now that Tailgate’s ignorance has been considerably lessened, corrupted memories of the things he’d promised and Swerve’s flustered reaction mean much more than the Tailgate of a few weeks ago had realized. He likes the metallurgist turned bartender, his smile and jokes and friendship, but Tailgate’s pretty sure Swerve is not the mech he’ll interface with when the time comes to choose. And Swerve, Primus bless him, seems to be ok with that.

   Swerve jerks as if the thought that suddenly pops into his processor is a physical blow and he leans over the bar to whisper to Tailgate urgently. “If you’re not looking to advertise, then you’d better make sure Rodimus doesn’t find out you decided to go ahead with it. Morale’s been kind of low lately and I’d hate to see this turned into a Rodimus Star Moment- trademark pending.”

   “Don’t worry.” Tailgate blinks his visor in a reassuring wink. “I don’t think even Rodimus would find that appropriate.”

｡◕ ‿ -｡

 

   “-therefor, I, Rodimus, Captain of the _Lost Light,_ bestow upon you the Rodimus Star for bravery and personal growth. Congrats on the new upgrade buddy.”

   Flashy fingers place an even flashier golden badge on Tailgate’s chest and the mini can almost feel the pull of the magnetic backing. Rodimus starts up a clap and Tailgate is thankful to his spark and back that there’s not any other mechs in the medical recovery suite with them. The solo clap goes on so long that Tailgate eventually wonders if he should clap too even if his whole lower body is so sore the thought of any movement is unsavory. The moment Tailgate finally raises his own hands (hoping participation will speed this ‘ceremony’ along), the recovery room door flies open and First Aid is framed in the space. The medic’s entire frame vibrates violently as he jabs a finger back toward the open medibay behind him. “Captain, SIR! GET OUT!”

 (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

 

   “So two mechs don’t even have to be in love?” Tailgate vents in a drawn out moment of shock with a rust stick halfway to his exposed intake. All these evenings Tailgate’s sat on Rung’s comfy couch talking about love and the importance of self-worth and this is the first time he’s been truly shocked by new information. He was pretty sure love was the starting point for interface.

   “No. Not necessarily. Sometimes interface happens for quite the opposite reason.” Rung’s large optics find the ceiling and Tailgate isn’t sure if the therapist is looking for something or remembering something. “But most often, interface is between mechs with a certain level of care. Even if it’s only for recreational purposes, I strongly recommend a partner who is concerned for your well-being. Your needs as well as your desires.”

   “You only have to like another mech to interface?” Tailgate asks for the absolute clarification.

   Rung’s smile is always kind. “It’s a good place to start. Attraction is as much physical as it is mental in a healthy relationship. And that is the most important thing to remember, Tailgate: your health and happiness. But before we continue this talk of causual interface, would you remind recounting what Ratchet and the medical staff taught you about protecting yourself physically? We’re taking small steps, remember?”

   Tailgate nods and thinks back to everything he’s learned from the medics about self-care, hygiene, assessing frame compatibility, viruses, etc. But even as he rattles off all the details, a sub-thread of his processor is running over the dual concepts of attraction and a level of care.

 (･ัヮ･ั)？

 

   Sometimes, Tailgate runs a little hot when he’s with Chromedome and Rewind. Of all the educating Tailgate has been subjected to, the conjux pair’s teachings have been the most practical. Or at least most inspiring. Partnered positions, self-servicing methods, toys; all concepts glossed over by a still somewhat squirming First Aid (and avoided by just about any means possible when it comes to Ambulon). But with Chromedome and Rewind; Tailgate learns what those things look like, how to do them, where to get things or what’s safe to use instead. If a fan kicks on while Rewind is describing what something feels like- both solo and with a partner- no one comments on it and they always find something else to chat about before Tailgate leaves the couple’s hab so he doesn’t have to shuffle down the hall with his face burning and his legs made weak by all the possibilities.

   There’s a term for the thought that worms into Tailgate’s head every once in a while and puts a squirming heat in his new array: Threesome. He’s seen it too, in some of Rewind’s clips. The ones that even Rewind wasn’t sure should be viewed in collected company. But even as exciting as it feels to imagine two more frames to share the experience with, it seems it would take an awful lot of work…and coordination and trust. And even though love doesn’t have to be a part of it, Tailgate thinks more and more that is what he wants. If the point of having an array were just to use it, Tailgate could have picked some bot- just about any bot. But the longer he thinks on it, the more Tailgate wants what Chromedome and Rewind have. He doesn’t just want some mech interested in some body mod, Tailgate wants his own special partner.

(✪.✪)

 

   Tailgate’s array aches. It’s early. Far too early for him to be online. Even Cyclonus, being the absurdly early riser that he is, is still deep in recharge. The minibot knows he should get up, slip out of the hab to the nearest washracks and deal with his predicament in private. But the metal under his fingertips is warm, the edges of his panel slick, and his spike housing is tight. He was very well-informed before asking to have this upgrade. He knows the scientific names for all his new parts, knows how to care for them, and- after a few weeks of advice and careful exploration- he knows what makes them feel good. He knows how to touch himself so that his vents quicken and his processor lights up until his frame jerks and his circuits crackle with a pleasant after-buzz.

   What he wasn’t prepared for was the way his processor and body work in reverse. He thinks he might have seen it mentioned in one of Ratchet’s pamphlets but the concept of a 'sticky playback'- the thought that his own array could just act while he’s recharging- was so frightening that Tailgate skimmed over that quite quickly. Now, lying in the dark after what was surely a qualifying dream, Tailgate wishes he’d read a bit more thoroughly in case there’s a way to shut down those urgent desires to touch himself while his roommate is just a short distance away. He doesn’t remember much about the dream except that Red Alert was there, carrying Tailgate like that time he was over-charged and on his way to see Rung. Only, in the dream, large fingers had wandered. They’d drifted over plating in the spots Tailgate is learning he likes best. Even trying to remember heats the mini up again. There are nights when Tailgate thinks of Drift too. Supportive, protective, engine running so soft and steady he could sneak right up on you before you’d even noticed. There’s even been a memorable instance when a dream full of Ratchet’s grumpy rumbling ended in sudden wakefulness and a wet and fluttering valve. But Tailgate doesn’t want any of those mechs. Not really. Not when he’s awake and thinking it over. Tailgate hasn’t yet found the courage to ask Rung what it means to be dreaming about mechs he doesn’t want to be with.

   A quick glance with his visor only at a quarter brightness reveals Cyclonus is very much still unconscious. How often Tailgate has wanted to wake him up. To talk to him. To ask if Cyclonus ever has dreams like that and how he deals with them. ‘Alone’ is probably the answer to how Cyclonus would deal with it. How he seems to deal with many things. They didn’t even have a discussion after Cyclonus finally wandered back from the brig after The Incident and Tailgate would have thought himself more than qualified to talk about the whole fiasco. As he loses himself in puzzling it out, Tailgate’s body quiets and, eventually, the minibot is able to drift off again with just the faintest memory of large hands and steady vents and stern words.

(*´ー｀*)

 

   “You looking for some bot in particular?”

   Tailgate all but pops the cables in his neck when he whips around to find Whirl has managed to slip up right behind him while the mini was, apparently not-so-casually, eyeing the mechs gathered in Swerve’s bar.

   “Uh, not in particular,” Tailgate half-fibs as Whirl works his angled frame onto the stool next to Tailgate. Their relationship nowadays is…odd, way more comfortable than anyone would have imagined yet sometimes still strangely unbalanced. Though Tailgate is certain the mechs Whirl does choose to peacefully interact with are few and far between and Tailgate wonders if maybe he ought to feel honored to be one of them.

   “Liar,” Whirl accuses with a slotted glare.

   “Not for any _mech_ in particular,” the mini objects crossly before mumbling in an embarrassed whisper, “just…maybe…”

   Whirl snickers in that almost frightening way of his. “Bunk feeling a little empty on the off shifts?”

   A flush that Tailgate can’t control lights up his face and he refuses to answer- mostly annoyed that he’s still so obvious.

   “Not a particular mech but a type maybe?” Whirl ponders with claws clacking against the bar top as he scans the room. “What da ya want? Give me some clues to work with. I mean, if I’m not gonna get fragged, might as well help you.”

   “No! Really, you don’t have to-“

   “Minis? Mid-sized? Big bots?”

   “Whirl…”

   The bigger bot stares Tailgate down with that single optic, clearly warning that Whirl will not let this go easily. And a very small part of Tailgate is perhaps a teensy bit grateful for that.

   “Mid-sized,” the minibot whispers, “…with matte paint jobs and...big hands.”

   Claws resume tapping thoughtfully as Whirl scans the room with renewed interest.

{´◕ ◡ ◕｀}

 

   Now he knows how frustrated Whirl must have felt during the whole learning-about-interface debacle. Tailate rolls onto his front, a position he would never recharge in but one that might give him a few extra seconds to stop if Cyclonus stirs across the way. He angles his hips for the same reason, providing additional cover by his rounded thighs before reaching down. He lets his panel slide open, urging it to do so slowly. Still the slick glide seems incredibly loud in their darkened hab.

   His finger brushes over the spiral seal on his spike housing. The small touch encourages the seal to retract and his spike to extend at about half the pressure Tailgate knows it’s capable of. He strokes it slowly, mindful of the slight sound the move makes. Just a little lubricant will help eliminate that but Tailgate is sure that if he touches his valve right now, he’ll instantly give himself away with a moan. Instead, he squirms his smallest finger alongside his spike until he can dip into the housing and collect some of the wetness that’s meant to keep the base and spike sliding smoothly as it pressurizes. It’s something Rewind taught him- a source of lube accessible when you want to play with your spike but not necessarily your valve. It does the trick, making the slide of Tailgate’s fingers silent over his spike and he pumps himself slowly until he sees the first jump of a spark under his arm. He could overload right now but he realizes he doesn’t’ know how he intends to clean up a spike emission. Even if he cupped it in his hands, how would he make it out the door. This would be an excellent puzzle to pose to Rewind. But now’s not exactly the time.

   With a steadying vent, Tailgate withdraws shaky fingers and allows his spike to depressurize slowly. He quests downward- traces the hard edge framing his lower array and brushes the mesh folds starting to swell with energon to make them sensitive. Parting the mesh lightly with a single digit, Tailgate rubs the slippery little node hidden near the top with a personal promise to play with that later since the inner walls of his valve are already quivering in anticipation. He slips one finger in deep, straight to the knuckle with zero resistance. It feels so good he gently slips in a second, dual fingertips finding embedded nodes in the lining and stroking through squishy, mesh walls. He pushes them in and out. Fast in, slow out- the way that gets him hottest the fastest. His thumb wanders up to find his anterior node hidden between sticky lips and he rocks onto the fingers.

   Cyclonus grumbles. Some sleepy rumble devoid of words that, nonetheless, stills Tailgate instantly. The mini’s throat cycles down to prevent the moan that rises up the same time his valve walls contract. His hips are pressed nearly flush to the recharge slab as he waits with a stalled vent. This leaves his fingers shoved in rough and deep. Cyclonus makes another noise, a low growl that dances down the mini's spinal strut, and Tailgate wonders how much deeper longer claws could sink. Tailgate overloads silently on twitching fingers.

(ღ˘o˘ღ)

 

   “There’s…someone I think I’d like to ask.”

   Rung pauses, looks up from the model they’re piecing together between them, and the funny plates above his eyes rise in the cue to go ahead. But Tailgate is incredibly reluctant to voice this, even to Rung.

   “Is that so?” Rung asks as he slots a glue-skimmed component into place and checks on the progress Tailgate is making on one of the wings. “How do you feel about that?”

   “Nervous.” Tailgate brushes one of the delicate parts in his hands.

   “That’s normal,” Rung assures as he lays down the last of his tools, giving Tailgate his undivided attention. “Would you like to discuss-“

   “I’m afraid he’ll say no,” the blue and white mini blurts.

   “It does happen sometimes. But it’s not a reflection of-”

   Tailgate shakes his helm. That’s not the whole of the problem.

   “I’m afraid he’ll say no and hate me for asking. I’m afraid he’ll never talk to me again.”

   His misery seems to infect Rung for just a few seconds.

   “Have you considered that he may agree?”

   “Yeah, but…I don’t even know if he’s honestly a good choice.”

   Thin fingers weave together and rest in Rung’s lap. “Is he good to you?”

   ‘In his own way’ is the first phrase that pops into Tailgate’s processor but, that’s not really fair. It’s more like something Chromedome or Swerve might say.

   “He is good to me,” Tailgate decides, “but frustrating. I think he tries to hide it.”

   Rung makes the face that Tailgate is deciding means the orange mech wants to say something but, whatever the thought might be, it never makes it past careful lips. Tailgate is sure Rung knows about three-hundred percent more than he lets on. The moment of hesitance quickly melts into an understanding smile. “You’re very familiar with this mech then. You’re attracted to him?”

   He thinks about big hands- even if they’re sharp…slag. ALL of him is sharp. The hands, the glare, the way he speaks. Cyclonus is sharp from the tip of his pedes to the tip of his horns…one of which, Tailgate made. But he also thinks about Cyclonus’ arms and how strong they are. He thinks about Cyclonus as he sings and how even the old marching tunes sound gruff but vibrant. He thinks about all the time Cyclonus has lived, all the things he’s seen and done, and wonders if the same experiences would make the minibot just as prickly. He thinks about how Cyclonus’ face is barely at ease even as he sleeps. And how the other mech looks handsome even then. Tailgate is attracted to Cyclonus. Painfully attracted. Tailgate nods mutely to answer the therapist’s question.

   “Then perhaps that is the place to start. Don’t approach with thoughts of interface. Simply let this mech know you find him attractive and wait for his response. You may find yourself pleasantly surprised. Tailgate, it can be frightening to put yourself out there but you’ll never know otherwise, will you?”

(Ծ‸ Ծ)’

 

    “I like you,” Tailgate half whispers and half blurts across the table. His face burns and his joints hurt from being compressed so tightly. “I like you a lot.”

   Cyclonus hesitates, his mug dipping in its path to the mech’s mouth, and red eyes dart to the open space beyond the corner table Tailgate has managed to procure for this momentous occasion.

   “I enjoy your company as well,” Cyclonus rumbles just as the mug finally makes it to his lips.

   It’s like nitrogen in Tailgate’s spark. Does Cyclonus think this is a joke? That Tailgate is overcharged maybe? Should…Tailgate elaborate? Maybe the other mech just doesn’t understand.

   “Sorry,” Tailgate clears his intake of a grinding stutter, “I meant that I think you’re really-“

   “I’m turning in for the evening,” Cyclonus states abruptly- running completely over Tailgate’s words- and slides from their table leaving his barely touched mug of Engex and an acutely humiliated Tailgate behind. The mini watches purple armor until it vanishes on the other side of the bar door and his optics catch Whirl’s single one from the bar. Tailgate’s gaze snaps to the table in front of him, hoping that no one can tell he’s just been completely and utterly shut down. After a moment of squirming and praying, Tailgate jabs his straw into whatever Cyclonus was drinking and makes short work of the nearly full container. And, wow, does it burn!

   “You know you could have your pick from a pretty decent pool.”

   Tailgate sucks a bit harder at the straw in stubborn response to the mech that's decided to join him. He doesn’t want to pick from a pool.

   Whirl’s shadow covers the minibot and Tailgate crossly thinks Whirl could at least have a seat if he’s going to try and hook Tailgate up- an effort that yielded nothing the last time they scouted for a match. Hundreds of mechs aboard the _Lost Light_ and Tailgate chose one that probably wouldn’t interface him if Tailgate was waiting on Cyclonus’ recharge slab with his spike extended and valve barred. The image zings straight to said parts and Tailgate pushes Cyclonus’ mug away resolutely. After a second glance, Tailgate realizes that Whirl is not just hovering at the edge of the booth, he’s hiding Tailgate from the rest of the busy bar- shielding him.

   “Thanks,” Tailgate murmurs, catching on to the subtle kindness.

   Whirl doesn’t acknowledge it. Tailgate’s learning Whirl will make a big deal out of being thanked for the most mundane of things- not bumping you in a narrow hallway, showing up to a meeting on time, not taking the last seat at the bar- but the blue mech rarely accepts thanks in a case where Tailgate would think it’s actually warranted. The mini swallows back a hiccup that wants to be the beginning of a sob. Whirl may be crazy but even he seems to know what warmth is.

   “Hey, Panic Legs, you wanna go to the oil reservoir and drink til our gyros float?”

   Tailgate considers Whirl and then the half-neglected drink. What else is he gonna do? Go back to a suite he shares with an icy crush? Tailgate wraps a hand around the mug. “Let’s go.”

(ಥ﹏ಥ)

 

   They’ve been drinking for hours. Whirl more so than Tailgate but only by merit of the heliformer’s larger tank. Cyclonus’s mug, along with the couple dozen or so canisters that seemed to magically keep appearing out of Whirl’s subspace, litter the floor around them. They’re both what any mech would consider disgracefully overcharged and they’ve devolved from what was a pretty heated tirade from Whirl about love and interface in general into a series of half-considered questions. Tailgate’s so far learned Whirl's stance on dating (completely worthless), casual interface (the only way to interface), the best position (something called Suspended Senate- which Tailgate did not ask to have elaborated but did devote to memory so he can look it up later), not to mention a slew of other things that Tailgate only vaguely remembers.

   “So do you…do…” Tailgate stares at the reservoir room’s high ceiling, trying to catch sight of the question each time it slips out of his head without passing through his vocalizer like a proper question should. Static makes interesting shapes at the corner of Tailgate’s visor but the mini can’t catch those either. A fume backs up in his tanks and escapes in a hiccup. He wants to ask the question that still occasionally tugs at his mind when he’s sober. “Do you…like to spike or…”

   Whirl’s laugh feels very loud. Probably because Whirl’s not-face is right next to Tailgate’s head the way the two are sprawled out over the floor.

   “Been holding that one in, eh? Do I spike or get spiked, right?” The larger mech sniggers and then goes silent long enough Tailgate thinks he’s not getting an answer until Whirl finally punches the silence by dragging out the first consonant and popping the word almost gleefully. “Nnnnope.”

   “Nope…what?” Tailgate flounders, not sure how that’s an answer at all.

   “Neither,” Whirl offers equally cryptic.

   Tailgate blinks at the ceiling a couple of times before letting his head drop to the side and attempting to find that single yellow optic with his own blurry optic band. “Neither?”

   “Neither,” Whirl reiterates after a hiccup of his own- seems their evening’s activities have finally caught up to the larger mech too. “But it’s not a matter of liking. Don’t have a-”

   Whirl gestures vaguely between his sprawling legs when he can’t seem to find the word. Tailgate very carefully rolls onto his front so he can better observe Whirl now that the former Wrecker’s tone has dropped to some miserable huff.

   “An array?” Tailgate supplies. He doesn’t think he could forget the term even if he were twice as wrecked.

   “Yeeeah,” Whirl whispers and the look he gives Tailgate, like the mini is his new hero, makes Tailgate giggle. “Went the way of these things.”

   Whirl holds up his claws which sway and bump into each other with lack of coordination.

   “And this,” he murmurs with a wave over his helm.

   The confession makes Tailgate…sad. Sympathetic.  And confused. “Then what did you want me for?”

   Whirl’s single optic flickers and his helm jerks, as if he’s just narrowly avoided slipping offline. “All that slag you were spewin’ at Swerve’s…thought you were crazy enough we could get inventive.”

    The former-Wrecker laughs first- a little choking noise that quickly turns into an incredulous cackle. It only feels insulting for a second but then the thought of trying to get freaky with Whirl- inacting some of the less typical stuff from Rewind’s super secretest personal collection- strikes Tailgate as hilariously wrong and Tailgate joins in until his own laughter makes his helm hurt and he lays it gently on the floor beneath him as a few final titters escape. Once Whirl’s last chuckling sighs have faded and they’ve both settled back into a comfortable silence, an outrageous thought prompts Tailgate to break that silence. “Do you still want to try?”

   Some of the overhead duct work creaks in the silence that follows and Tailgate disconnects visual feed while he ponders if he said that or just thought it really hard. A loud thunk a hands breadth from Tailgate’s helm has his optic band startling back to life. Whirl’s elongated helm is pointed squarely at Tailgate, though upside down from the mini’s perspective.

   “Cyclonus would rip out my spark and eat it.”

   It’s not an answer Tailgate thinks he wanted to hear and certainly not any of the ones he expected.

   “You know that, right?” Whirl reaches over his own head and across Tailgate’s body to poke the mini in the side. “I think…he’d murder anything for you.”

   Tailgate bats the poking claws away and sinks his face back into the dark crook of his other arm. Whirl’s declaration would have been a lot more satisfying if Cyclonus hadn’t just bugged out of Tailgate’s earlier confession.

   “He thinks I’m fragile,” Tailgate whispers into the floor.

   “He’d probably chop off his own arm for you.”

   “He thinks I’m a nuisance.”

   “He’d throw himself into a sun,” Whirl counters with a little bit of a snicker and a hushed, “I’d like to see that one.”

   There’s more. More things, more reasons, that mean getting closer to Cyclonus is never gonna happen. Tailgate knows there’s more but between the rejection and the massive amounts of questionable liquid he’s imbibed in the last few hours, Tailgate is too drained to argue them all. He’s so tired that he slowly slips into recharge instead, lulled by an increasing violent list of ways Whirl claims Cyclonus would end himself for Tailgate’s sake.

ヽ(´ｰ｀ )ﾉ  

 

   Cybercrosis

   It hangs there over his shoulders, around his ankles like invisible chains. He’s going to die. In some stupidly incurable way. Who knows. Maybe the Cybertronian race would have found a cure if not for the millions of years spent in civil war! He’d told Cyclonus the horrible news, the memory of all the things Whirl promised the purple warrior would do for Tailgate an achingly bitter memory. And what did Cyclonus do? He told Tailgate not to hope.

   Wouldn’t now be the time to lie? The time to hide things? Like how about hiding the reality that Tailgate’s spark is about to sputter and extinguish in a way that Ratchet described in some detailed agony? How about sweeping all that slag into some imaginary box? How about not acting like this is inevitable? How about Cyclonus not hiding that it bothers him? Even if it’s just a little bit.

(´ヘ｀)

 

   He’s lying on his deathbed- his honest-to-Primus deathbed- still having never interfaced with another mech. Tailgate blames Swerve’s Earth movies for making that sting as much as it does. If Tailgate learned one thing about Earth culture, it’s that dying a virgin is about the worst way to go. Of course, the notion is ridiculous now. Everything is secondary when you’re dying! He feels like it’s close. Really real and scary close.

   “Cyclonus?” He calls out because he has no idea if the mech is there. Tailgate can’t even hear the creaking of his own crumbling insides anymore. “I think this is it.”

   Those make for some horrible last words.

   Now that he’s kind of resigned to the fact that he isn’t going to make it- that Cyclonus was right about not hoping- Tailgate wonders if this is his only chance to say something that Cyclonus will have no choice but to hear. Cyclonus is definitely the kind of mech to value something as dramatic as a dying mech’s last words! The minibot could say a hundred things. That he never got an apology for that one really vicious backhand and the petty kick after. He’d probably get it now if he asked. Or he could tell Cyclonus to lighten up; tell him to smile every once in a while. Cyclonus would probably be honor-bound to be nice after Tailgate ‘bites the big one.’ He could point out that, no matter how hard Cyclonus tries to hide it, he cares about Tailgate. Cyclonus wouldn’t have been here in these last hours, singing and occasionally tracing clawed fingers over the major line in Tailgate’s neck as he checks to see if the corrosion has reached fuel pumps. Tailgate could admit to savoring those morbid moments of touch and how he wished he were mobile enough to grab that sharp hand and hold on to it. Or Tailgate could confess he’s pretty sure he’s hopelessly, infuriatingly in love with Cyclonus by this point.

   That last one, Tailgate thinks, would make for some good final words. By the time he’s settled on the phrasing, his vocal components have locked and he thinks he may have even dipped out of consciousness for a second. Too bad. Would have been some really good last

✖_✖

 

 

   “Yup!” Whirl shrugs from his place at the head of Tailgate’s recovery slab. “Literally stabbed you back from the grave. Only Cyclonus. Am I right?”

   The minibot blinks in wonder at the medibay ceiling. Not some dim, quiet room he's been allowed to die in- in a recovery room meant for _living_ mechs! He still can’t believe…

   “I’m alive?”

   “You’re gonna start owing me a drink every time you say that, Panic Legs.” A solid poke has Tailgate’s helm rocking side to side. “For the last time, yes! Certified, bonafied, miacle…afied alive.”

   “I’m gonna tell him.”

   “Eh?” Whirl queries with optic narrowing, leaning over the prone minibot so he can’t possibly miss any further comments.

   “Cyclonus,” Tailgate whispers in resolute awe as his spark- his reinvigorated spark- begins racing. “I’m gonna tell him that I’m in love with him.”

   The vow meets silence. After a beat, Whirl shuffles his pedes. “I feel like this moment is kinda wasted on me. You want me to get the love birds?”

   “I’m gonna tell him that I love him and that I’m sick of waiting for him to notice-”

   “Yeah, I’ll go get Stick and Shoulders for you.”

   “I’m gonna make him notice, even if I have to punch him to get his attention!”

   “Ok,” Whirl does an about-face from his spot halfway to the exit and comes back to lean conspiratorially over Tailgate’s still fragile body, “Now I’m totally on board for this. When do we tell that loser you're in love?”

 

ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ

 

 

 

 

                                                         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovelies who hung out like champs as I finished this. You're amazing. Please take this humble Tailgate sketch with all my love and keep following this fic for the eventual moment when I finally post the silly (and way sexier) spin-off: Convincing Cyclonus.
> 
> [Show your support with Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/foxficandink)


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